


Please Remember Me Once More

by peachyzain



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Blood, Disturbing Themes, Fluff and Angst, Guns, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Violence, Torture, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 58,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3368804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyzain/pseuds/peachyzain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything has gone to shit, as in most of the UK has been destroyed by the corrupt government and nobody can be trusted. Louis and Zayn are partners in crime armed with devilish good looks, quick wit, and actual weapons. Liam is a guarded badass with a soft spot for one particular boy. Niall is a box of giggles and dick drawings, and a surprising amount of knowledge. Harry is a particularly affectionate boy with no memory of a life before Louis found him in the woods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> okay so ive been working really really hard on this for months now and im really excited to finally be posting it!!! im not sure how many chapters there will be, but its definitely on its way. thank you so much to raven (twitter @BlazinwithZouis) and molly (twitter @1988njh) for supporting and reading! id love any feedback, thank you for reading! (my twitter is @myboylilo)

The chill in the air is obscene, and Louis can’t pull his overcoat tight enough around him. His bones are cold and aching and the last thing he wants to do is move, but—he glances at his watch and sees that it’s 6:03—they’ve got to get a move on if they’re going to make any progress. He rolls over on the deplorable mattress (he protested vehemently against sleeping on it, but once it became apparent that that was going to be their only option he begrudgingly agreed) and shakes Zayn’s shoulder.

“Wake up,” Louis says, sitting up and looking around the dingy alley they’ve been calling home for two days.

Zayn groans as he opens his eyes and looks at Louis, blinking away sleep. “What time’s it?”

“Time to go, your highness.”

Louis stands up, ignoring the terrible shrieking of his joints, and brushes dust and probably thousands of bed bugs off of his tattered old jeans. Probably his least favorite thing about being a Rebel is that he always looks like a filthy animal that just crawled out of the sewer, if he’s being completely honest. He’s been wearing the same clothes for what a year and two months now, and although he washes them whenever he gets the opportunity, and he keeps his hair styled as best as he can and keeps his teeth clean and his smell almost positively delightful (as in he rubs flowers under his armpits whenever he gets the chance), he doesn’t feel like his once flawless self. Of course, he doesn’t let anyone he comes across know that. On the outside, he’s the same snarky, good-looking bastard that he ever was, but on the inside he’s a subpar version of his former glory, and it really doesn’t suit him.

“I hate being a Rebel,” Zayn grumbles.

Louis snorts but doesn’t say anything. Everyone hates being a Rebel (who wants to live the life of a sewer rat and die fighting for basic human rights, which they still don’t have, mind you), but it’s a choice. And they all choose it. Louis would rather die a Rebel than a Conformist. He’s always been like that, always gone against the current, but it’s taken on a whole new meaning recently.

Zayn rises off of the mattress and adjusts the strap of the gun slung over his shoulder. Louis glances at him and can’t help but scowl at the way his caramel skin looks in the early morning light. He’s illuminated like some kind of fucking ethereal being (nothing new) and he looks so rugged and sexy in the same goddamn clothes Louis has seen him in for almost a year. He’s envious of Zayn’s constant beauty (he’s all cheekbones and eyelashes, which is really just infuriating). It’s not fair that he looks better as a Rebel than Louis ever did as a regular guy (not that Louis would ever admit that out loud). He looks better than any Rebel has the right to, quite honestly, and Louis would hate him if he wasn’t such a great friend. In the time that they’ve been allies, Zayn has saved Louis’s life more times than Louis would like to admit (nine, if anyone wants to know), and he hasn’t mentioned it. Not once. Because it doesn’t matter, it wasn’t a big deal. He’s Zayn fucking Malik and he’ll save your life a hundred times without a second thought and look better than any human doing it.

“Better get going then,” Louis says, tightening the strap of his crossbow. “Conformists’ll be here soon.”

Zayn nods and pulls a cigarette out of the inside pocket of his jacket. Louis rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything as Zayn removes a lighter from the same pocket, lights the cigarette, and takes a long drag. Even in their current state of affairs, Zayn still manages to find cigarettes everywhere they go, and always has a working lighter. Not only is he gorgeous, he’s apparently a fucking wizard.

They walk silently down the barren street with their coats buttoned up to the top and their hands resting lightly on their weapons. Conformists are everywhere, always, and they can never be too alert.

The ground is cracked and has a light layer of ash left over from the bombing that occurred here a few months back. It destroyed most of the town, save for a few buildings, along with hundreds of people. A handful of Rebels got away in time, but amid all of the rubble and ash, Louis knows there are bones, but he doesn’t like to think about it. Death is everywhere now. Everyone who hasn’t died is broken and bloody, and fucking pissed at the government and their Conformists, but most of them are so separated and scattered that they can’t fight back now. Not yet. And that’s why Louis and Zayn are heading to London, or what used to be London, because if there’s any place that’s going to have Rebels, it’s there. Louis knows there are bunkers upon bunkers under the remains of the city, and he knows that only Rebels have access to them (to be honest, only because he overheard some Rebels discussing it the night Blackpool was destroyed. He’d been nearly unconscious, and the men hiding out in the shell of his home had assumed he was dead and it was safe to discuss such sensitive matters). He doesn’t know how they’ve managed to keep it hidden from the Conformists for so long, but they have, and he knows there’s safety there. They just have to get there before they’re slain in the streets, which is much easier said than done, but they’ve made it this far.

Ten months ago, Louis met Zayn. He had been traveling from Blackpool, where he’d been living on his own for about a year, back towards Doncaster, not that he was totally sure where he was going. Everything was a guess, because everything looked the same now: gray ash, burning embers, crumbling buildings, dead bodies, dark looming forests. He ended up in Bradford, somehow, and was hiding out in an abandoned bank when he’d heard footsteps coming down the hall towards the old office he’d been sleeping in. He had readied his crossbow, and was prepared to kill whoever was there (something he hates to think about. Louis is an ass, sure, but he’s not a murderer, but he supposes everybody is if they’re driven to it), when Zayn appeared in the door, assault rifle pointed at Louis.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Zayn had said, but his gun didn’t move a centimeter. He would kill Louis, no problem. He didn’t want to, but he would.

“Who are you?” Louis demanded, narrowing his eyes. He had been afraid, scared to death, because he hadn’t killed anybody yet. He had barely used the crossbow since the time he found it lying next to a dead middle aged man in Blackpool. He wasn’t sure if he could kill anybody with it.

“Zayn.” Louis had watched with wide eyes as he lowered his rifle, and bent down to roll up one of his pant legs, revealing a tiny x on his ankle. “Does this mean anything to you?”

As soon as Louis saw the screw tattoo (the symbol of a Rebel) on Zayn, he had felt safe, which was stupid and ridiculous, because he was Louis Tomlinson and he was just fine on his own, thank you very much. But after being alone for four months, constantly on the run and terrified and tired, it was nice to see a friend. Zayn’s impossible beauty was just the cherry on top. It was good to have an ally, and it was even better to have that ally be someone so fucking fit.

Ever since then, they’ve been together, protecting each other, moving towards London. Or what Louis hopes is London. He thinks they’re on the right track, it’s impossible to tell, but no matter what they keep moving. It’s not safe to stay in one spot for too long.

Zayn throws the butt of his cigarette down without bothering to stomp it out (because honestly what’s the point everything is ash anyway) and glances over at Louis, but he stays silent. He’s usually quiet, which is something Louis is thankful for. There’s not much to talk about other than death and destruction and the unknown outcome of it all. They don’t talk about the very real possibility that tomorrow they’ll be one of the charred skeletons lying under a pile of bricks, or a decaying body kicked into a ditch with a bullet still lodged in its skull. They don’t talk about how many people they’ve killed, or how many more they’re going to have to kill. They don’t talk about the possibility of London being a sham, a fantastical myth that some hopeful Rebels conjured up. They don’t want to talk about unpleasant things, so they don’t talk about much of anything, and Louis is just fine with that. Zayn is silent, but he’s there, always.

As they’re carefully picking their way across a mountain of bricks, metal, cement, and general rubble, Zayn stops and raises his rifle, finger on the trigger, and moves to stand protectively in front of Louis.

“What is it?” Louis whispers, glancing around frantically (no he’s not afraid, obviously. He’s Louis Tomlinson) and holding his crossbow at the ready position.

Zayn narrows his eyes. “I heard something,” he murmurs. “Somebody else is here.”

Louis swallows and throws a glance over his shoulder. Nobody is there. “Where?”

“Heard it to the left,” Zayn answers quietly. “Follow me, stay low, keep your weapon up, okay?”

Louis nods and drops to almost a crouch. Zayn’s shoulders are tense and his knuckles are white from holding his gun so tightly as he creeps forward swiftly and silently. Louis follows him, ignoring the fear burning in his gut. He would follow Zayn into the depths of hell, and he feels like he’s doing that right now. He trusts him more than anyone. Not that he’d ever admit that to him, because that’s far too sappy and emotional and sweet, and not at all Louis. He would die for him in a heartbeat, and he knows Zayn would do the same. He hopes it’s not about to happen right now.

Zayn pauses at the edge of the pile of shit that used to be tall buildings and squats down. Louis does the same and peers around the edge. He can see two men (Louis secretly hopes they’re fit Rebels) walking away from them. They both have guns—one a pistol, the other a shotgun—but they’re not pointing them towards anything, just holding them. They don’t know Zayn and Louis are there.

“Gonna sneak up on them.” Zayn’s voice is barely a whisper, but Louis feels like he’s shouting he’s so nervous about the other men noticing them. “Stay close.”

Legs shaking, Louis carefully follows Zayn in the direction of the strangers. He hates how nervous he still gets, especially when Zayn is so confident and fearless, but he doesn’t let it show. He’s an excellent actor. Zayn probably thinks he’s just as good a Rebel as him. He prides himself in that.

They’re right behind the men now, and Louis is certain they can hear his heart pounding in his chest. Zayn lifts his gun, completely silent, and puts the barrel against the closest man’s blonde head.

The blonde man freezes, tightens his grip on his pistol. “Liam,” he says. His voice is level and serious, and ridiculously fucking Irish.

The other man—Liam—stops and turns around. When he sees Zayn’s gun against his partner’s head, and Louis’s crossbow angled at his own heart, he swallows and brings his shotgun up to point at Louis. His eyes are deep brown and sweet, but his face is rugged, bearded, and there are muscles rippling extremely obviously under his dirty white t-shirt and black leather jacket. If he didn’t have a gun pointed at him, Louis would find him to be quite attractive.

“Who are you?” Liam asks harshly. “Get away from him.”

“I don’t want to kill him,” Zayn responds, “but I will.”

Liam’s eyes harden. “If you hurt a hair on his head, I’ll kill your friend. One shot.” Louis swallows. “He’ll be dead.”

Unfazed, Zayn replies, “I’ll kill you both before your finger leaves the trigger. Threaten him one more time, and it’ll be the last thing you ever say.”

Louis looks at Zayn, looks at Liam, and back at Zayn again. “Let’s all just calm down,” he says, hoping to lighten the thick atmosphere and prevent any bloodshed. “Who are you then, Brown Eyes? Blondie?”

“Who are you?” Blondie retorts.

“You’re in no position to be asking questions with a gun to your head,” Louis snaps, rolling his eyes. “Now answer me.”

Blondie turns and looks at Louis. His eyes are sky blue and wide, and his face is innocence and sunshine. Louis feels a pang in his chest (God he’s too soft for this) when he sees the little bit of fear in those bright blue eyes.

“Me name’s Niall Horan,” he says, ignoring the protest from his partner. “I’m from Ireland, obviously. Came here to be a music producer. Didn’t really work out since everything went to fuckin’ shit everywhere, and all that.”

“Don’t tell them anything else, Niall,” Liam tells him. “We can’t trust them.”

“Liam, they have a gun to me head,” Niall says flatly. “Now’s not the time to be mysterious.”

Louis actually laughs, because why not. There’s not a gun to his head.

Liam stares at him like he’s got three heads and looks back at Niall. “Niall, don’t—“

“Just show them, for fuck’s sake, Liam!”

Liam blinks and puts his shotgun on the ground, which Louis finds to be surprising, but he keeps his crossbow aimed at him. He might have another gun in his sock, or a knife strapped to his dick, and Louis is not going to take any chances. Liam pulls up the leg of his dark pants and there it is: the little x. The screw. Rebels.

Zayn immediately removes his gun from its place against Niall’s head, puts the strap back on his shoulder, and Louis does the same. “You’re Rebels.”

Niall turns around, relief making his face glow. “Haven’t seen more since I found Liam.”

The tension in the air dissipates and they all observe each other, finally feeling at ease. Niall is wearing a t-shirt with “Crazy Mofos” (Jesus Christ, is he fourteen years old?) printed in black across it, a red flannel shirt, a heavy black overcoat covered in patches and holes, skinny black pants with holes over both of the knees, and gray sneakers that are covered in dirt and grime. He looks like a six year old who just came in from playing in the mud on a pleasant summer day. Liam, on the other hand, is an apparent badass in his leather jacket and sturdy black boots.

“Where are you two headed?” Louis asks, reaching up to adjust his fringe.

“Dunno,” Niall admits.

Liam frowns at him. “You don’t have to tell them anything, Niall. They’re not going to kill us.” He picks up his shotgun and motions for Niall to follow him. “Let’s go.”

“Hold on.” Niall pockets his pistol and scratches the back of his neck. “We haven’t seen other Rebels since we got out of Manchester.”

“I didn’t think anyone made it out of Manchester,” Louis breathes.

The attack on Manchester was the worst of all of the rebellion (so far, anyway). It was the first attack by the Conformists and it came in the dark of the night. Nobody was expecting it. Rebels weren’t even considering starting the war yet, but it was obvious that the Conformists weren’t going to wait around. They dropped bombs, hundreds of them, across the entire city. Everything was completely obliterated. Louis hasn’t seen it yet, but from what he’s heard it looks like there was never even a city there. It’s nothing. Just miles and miles of nothing.

Liam’s face is dark and his big eyes are glassy. “Nobody else did.”

Louis looks down. “I’m sorry.”

“Everybody is,” Liam murmurs, looking away.

“Stay with us,” Zayn offers. Louis looks up at him, surprised. He never thought they’d add more people to their group, granted they’d never seen anyone else to add.

Niall’s face breaks into a grin and it looks completely right on him, like he should always be smiling, but Liam still looks guarded. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Louis puts a hand to his chest, faking offense. “You think we smell, don’t you, Liam? Very rude of you to say.”

Niall laughs loudly, so loudly that it startles Louis. He hasn’t heard anything so loud since the bombs were dropped over his head. “Liam, why are you so rude to our friends?”

Liam looks completely dumbfounded. “I…what? Niall, what are you doing?”

“Oi, come on, Liam! We haven’t seen anyone in ages. We should stay with them. It might be fun, yeah?”

“Who doesn’t like fun?” Louis adds.

“Who doesn’t like fun?” Zayn repeats, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow at Liam.

“Everybody likes fun, Liam!”

Liam frowns. “I just—“

Niall interrupts him. “There’s safety in numbers, ya know. Look at this one’s gun for fuck’s sake!” He points animatedly at Zayn’s rifle. “We stand a better chance with them.”

“We don’t even know their names.” “All you have to do is ask,” Louis mutters, picking at a loose string on his jacket. “We don’t really have all day to stand here. We need to keep moving. So are you going to be joining us or not?”

“What are your names?”

Louis grins and throws an arm around Zayn. “I’m Louis Tomlinson, and this is my delightful lover, Zayn Malik.”

“Lover?” Liam echoes.

“Not actually,” Zayn answers. “I’ve just saved his life about a hundred times and he drools over me regularly.”

Louis snorts but doesn’t bother correcting him. Who wouldn’t drool over Zayn? A crazy person, that’s who.

“What’s your full name, Liam? If you don’t mind.”

Liam hesitates before muttering, “Liam Payne.”

“A strong name, that,” Louis says cheerfully. “Are you going to be joining us, Mr. Payne?”

“Where are you lot headed?” Liam asks uncertainly.

“London.”

At that, Liam frowns and rests his shotgun on his right shoulder. “Come on, Niall. We’re getting out of here. They’re obviously nutters.”

Niall sighs and starts walking towards Liam, but Zayn grabs his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “We’re not nutters,” Zayn spits, glaring at Liam.

“There’s nothing left of London! Everybody knows that!”

“Let go of me, would you, mate?” Niall asks kindly, looking down at Zayn’s hand, which he doesn’t move. “I’m going with Liam. He’s right.”

“He’s not right, actually,” Louis retorts. “There are bunkers in London. Rebel bunkers.”

Niall turns and faces him. His round blue eyes are glowing with hope. “Bunkers? Really? How do ya know?”

“I heard Rebels talking about it,” Louis explains. “It’s the safest place.”

“It might not even be there,” Liam points out sharply.

“No,” Louis admits, “but if you have any better options I’d love to hear them.”

Louis can see Liam’s cheeks turning pink under all of his facial hair, but the burly Rebel doesn’t say anything. Instead he gives Niall a nod. Niall is positively beaming and practically skips away when Zayn releases his grip on him. Louis glances over at Zayn, who shrugs before he starts walking behind them. So now they have new allies, which Louis would normally hate (he’s perfectly fine with it being just him and Zayn, prefers it even), but he can’t exactly complain. More friends means more weapons, which means a greater chance of survival, and he’s not going to pass that up.

Zayn marches to the front of the pack, assuming his obvious role as silent leader (which Louis is perfectly fine with. He’d rather be a pretty face and a source of entertainment, and he’s extremely good at both). Liam, however, is having none of it. He’s insecure, maybe, or just bossy, but he keeps his pace matched perfectly with Zayn’s, and neither of them speak, which isn’t exactly surprising. This leaves Niall to fall back with Louis, twirl his pistol around on his finger, and talk. And talk. And talk. And talk.

Louis hasn’t heard anyone talk so much in nearly a year, and it’s quite frankly making his head spin. He loves to talk, sure, he’ll admit that. He’s even loud, he’ll admit that too, no problem. But Niall is a completely different breed. The sun is starting to dip down below the horizon as they trek along the edge of a dense forest, and Niall is still chatting away. Nobody is even answering him really, just a few noncommittal grunts and mumbles here and there, but he either doesn’t notice or it doesn’t bother him.

Either way, Louis, who has been pampered by Zayn’s soothing silence, has had enough.

“For God’s sake, Niall! Do you ever stop talking?”

Niall’s mouth actually closes (which is a feat in itself because Louis was beginning to think that was impossible) and Liam whips around to face Louis so fast that he might have actually gotten whiplash.

“Don’t talk to him like that!”

Louis crosses his arms. “Look, I’m sorry, but it’s been hours since he shut his mouth. I can’t take it anymore, I really can’t.”

Zayn gives an amused snort but doesn’t comment on the matter. Liam scowls at Louis before turning back around, focusing his steely gaze on the uneven terrain in front of them.

“I don’t like silence,” Niall says, glancing over at Louis. “It’s too loud.”

Louis actually thinks his jaw hits the ground. “Too loud? Silence is too loud? Are you honestly telling me silence is too loud? You, who has not shut his goddamn mouth since eight o’clock this morning?”

Niall grins. He was probably a sunflower, or a golden retriever, in a past life. “Yeah.”

“Amazing.”

Niall laughs and it rings eerily through the dark woods to their left. “You’re funny, Tommo, that you are.”

“Tommo?” Louis repeats, taken aback. “Did you just call me that?”

“Yeah. That alright?”

“’S alright,” Louis decides after a moment of internal debate. “Just odd, seeing as how we just met and you’ve already given me a nickname.”

“Blondie and Brown Eyes,” Liam murmurs as Niall cackles.

Louis looks at him, surprised. “What was that, Liam?”

“Blondie and Brown Eyes,” Liam repeats more loudly. “That’s what you called us when Zayn here had a gun to Niall’s head. Blondie and Brown Eyes.”

“Very astute observation, Brown Eyes.”

He can almost feel Liam frowning, which prompts him to smile brightly. Having new friends won’t be too bad. He’ll have someone to mess with now, because Zayn certainly doesn’t allow it, and he honestly has trouble functioning without being a pain in the ass or the bane of someone’s existence. It might even be fun.

~~~

They’ve been traveling with Liam and Niall for three days now, and he already knows more about Niall than he cares to, and still nothing about Liam. Niall’s activities are simple and predictable: eat, sleep, talk, sing, repeat (although the emphasis on “eat” is loose, considering the fact that food is slightly difficult to come by these days). He’s always cheerful and a living ray of sunshine, no matter what. Normally, that would drive Louis insane and he would find him to be an irritating pest, but Niall is so genuine that Louis hates to admit he finds the Irish ball of light endearing. Plus his jovial disposition is a breath of fresh air amidst all of the ruin and gray.

Liam, on the other hand, is a stone wall of seriousness. He’s the definition of no-nonsense-all-business. He doesn’t even crack a smile at Louis’s wildly humorous banter (which is incredibly rude, by the way). He usually just frowns, murmurs to Niall, or argues with Zayn about the best plan of action. It’s pretty understandable, what with all of the death and decay and whatnot, but Louis still isn’t very fond of it. He’s nice to look at though, so he supposes he’ll allow him to stick around.

Right now, they’re all sitting around (stripped down to their boxers while the rest of their clothes hang over a makeshift clothesline to dry off) a bright orange fire in the center of an old barn. It’s not the greatest setup, but it’s sheltered from the harsh wind and the roof is basically all there, so they’re protected from the pouring rain. Niall’s sprawled out on the dirt floor, resting his head on his folded arms and staring up at the ceiling with a smile (shocking) on his face. Liam is sitting beside him, silently cleaning his shotgun with one of his damp socks, and Louis is absolutely not staring at the shadow of the fire dancing over his abs (that’s a lie). Asleep opposite him, Zayn is lying on his side, back to the fire, spooning his assault rifle.

“Will it ever stop raining?” Niall asks, slowly sitting up and holding his hands out to the fire. “I hate being naked like this when it’s so damn cold.”

“You’re not naked, Niall,” Liam mumbles, setting his shotgun down beside him and glancing over at the blonde boy to his left. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“We weren’t all blessed with a body like yours, Liam,” Louis points out (and he’s not thinking about licking those abs, because that would be fucking stupid, and Louis is better than that).

Niall laughs, the sound bouncing off of the barn’s tin roof. “I’m not insecure—“

“We know,” Liam mutters. Niall is constantly reminding them how attractive and wonderful he is, reminding Louis of himself.

“—I’m just freezing my fucking arse off.”

“We all are,” Liam says, leaning back on his palms, exposing his glorious body even further and making Louis decide that he knows just how nice it is. “It’ll be better tomorrow.”

“Fucking hope so.”

Louis’s stomach roars and he claps his hands to it, hoping to silence it, but it just growls again, louder this time and completely defying Louis’s wishes. “Oi, I’m starving,” he groans.

“We all—“

“I know we all are, Liam,” he snaps, cutting him off. Liam just looks at him evenly. If he’s offended, he doesn’t show it, so Louis doesn’t bother apologizing. “I enjoy complaining every now and then. Humor me, will you?”

Liam just grunts and looks away, and Niall giggles, punching Liam gently in the arm. “Come on, mate, don’t be so serious all the time.”

“Someone’s got to be.”

Louis looks over at Liam and sees, very briefly, hurt flicker in his deep brown eyes. “Doesn’t have to be you,” he says, sounding as cheerful and upbeat as possible. “Zayn’s pretty serious sometimes.”

The corners of Liam’s mouth twitch and he nearly smiles, which in itself is a miracle. “Just in my nature, I guess.”

“We can still have fun, you know,” Louis continues. “Even in a time like this. It’s the only way to keep sane.”

Niall smiles widely. His teeth are remarkably white considering the severe lack of toothpaste, well, anywhere. “Come on, Liam, let’s have some fun, yeah? Tommo is a fun lad. I bet he has lots of tricks up his sleeve.”

Liam turns his attention to Louis, looking slightly uncertain. “What did you have in mind?”

Louis stands up and puts his hands on his hips so the men before him can bask in his undeniable glory. “Well,” he begins, putting emphasis on the word with a flourish of his hand, “we could play footie—“

“Love footie!” Niall chirps at the same time Liam gives a flat “No.”

“—we could perhaps reenact some music videos, sing some songs—“

“Love that!”

“No.”

“—last but not least, and my personal favorite I might add, we could mess with Zayn while he sleeps,” Louis finishes. Liam’s face lights up and he looks like an excited child, which is certainly new and welcome. “He’s a heavy sleeper, that one. It’s quite easy. I used to do it, but it’s not as fun alone.”

Liam smiles—it’s small, barely there, and probably shouldn’t really be called a smile at all, but Louis chalks it up as a victory.

“What do you propose we do to mess with him?”

Louis puts a finger to his chin, thinking, while Niall hops up like a daisy and starts spewing off ideas. “We should put his hand in hot water, so he’ll wee himself! Or, wait, no, we should draw on him. Draw a bunch of dicks, yeah? No, that’s not good enough. Oh! We could shave his head!”

“Niall, please.” Louis holds a hand up, giving Niall the universal signal for shut-the-fuck-up-please. “Zayn would not hesitate to roast your balls over this fire if you touched a hair on his head. Don’t be foolish.”

Niall bites back a grin, which doesn’t work at all. It comes shining through, which doesn’t warm Louis’s heart at all, definitely not (that’s a lie). And Liam actually laughs softly, which doesn’t make Louis smile (it absolutely does).

Niall jumps up and kicks his heels, which is disgustingly stereotypically Irish, and claps a hand onto Louis’s shoulder. “I’ve got it!” He stares at Louis, his eyes sparkling like sapphires, before continuing. “We should hide his clothes.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “That is an excellent idea.”

Beaming, Niall skips (he literally fucking skips, because he’s four years old apparently) over to their pitiful clothesline and pulls off Zayn’s powder blue jumper, skinny gray jeans, black overcoat, and wool socks. He rolls them all into a neat bundle, tucks it under his arm, and prances (Jesus Christ is he a My Little Pony character?) over to what used to be a horse stable. The gate whines when he opens it, but Zayn doesn’t stir, because he could sleep through a stampede, Louis has no doubt. He shoves Zayn’s bundle of clothes into an old feed bag (Louis prays it’s empty, because Zayn will be livid if there’s goddamn horse food on his clothes when he wakes up, and as much as that would be funny, he doesn’t want to deal with it). Once the clothes are sufficiently hidden, Niall turns around and trots back over to them giddily.

“I hid them!” he exclaims proudly.

Louis snorts. “Thanks, Blondie, I would’ve had no idea if you hadn’t told me.”

Liam gets to his feet and gives Niall a pat on the back. “Very good, Niall.”

Niall smiles like a school child being praised by his parents and settles back down in his spot by the fire.

“I can’t wait to see what Zayn does!”

“Oh, it’ll be a shit show, Niall,” Louis tells him, sitting down next to him, adjusting the fringe that’s falling in his eyes. “He’ll throw a proper fit, don’t you worry.”

Giggling like an idiot, Niall lays down and scratches his soft belly. Liam squats and ruffles the Irish man’s hair before lying down beside him with the faintest hint of a smile on his bearded face.

Slowly, Niall’s laughter fades and his eyelids flutter shut. Then Liam’s do the same and his hard, tired face softens into something sweet and child-like. Louis looks around at his friends (no, he doesn’t feel warm and delighted inside looking at them) before he lays down and closes his eyes, too. And he doesn’t dream about a life of color and clean clothes and warm summer days out on the lake with these boys (yes he does).

~~~

“Louis!”

Louis rolls over, tucks himself closer to Niall, ignoring the roaring voice calling his name. He hasn’t slept this well in ages and he’s not about to give it up.

“Louis!” the voice shouts again.

He feels something smack him on the back of the head and he opens his eyes crossly. “What the fuck was that for?” He reaches up and rubs his head and sees Zayn looming over him, jaw tense and eyes on fire. “Why have you done that?”

“You fucking know, Louis,” Zayn growls. “Don’t play dumb.”

Louis sniffs and sits up, still holding the spot on his head that Zayn clapped his hand against. “Maybe I actually am dumb, Zayn,” he pouts. “You’re just being plain mean, insulting my intelligence.”

Looking entirely apathetic about Louis’s complaints and livid at the situation at hand, Zayn stands up and glares down at him (and Louis stares at his smooth cinnamon skin and flawlessly sculpted body. He’s not even going to lie. What’s the point? Anyone with eyes would stare at Zayn if given the opportunity).

“You have five seconds to tell me where my clothes are.”

Louis widens his eyes, feigning offense, as Niall, who has apparently woken up, cackles maniacally beside him. “Why, Zayn, would you assume that I’m the one who has done something? I thought we were best mates. Thought we trusted each other.” He looks at Niall with a wink, causing him to erupt into a further fit of giggles, before returning his wounded stare back to Zayn. “I’m hurt, quite honestly.”

As Zayn opens his mouth to reply, Liam raises to a sitting position, looking irritated. “What is going on? Niall, stop laughing.”

Naturally, Niall laughs even louder (which Louis thought was surely impossible, but he’s managed to do it).

“Where are my clothes, Louis?” Zayn repeats.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Louis answers innocently.

Niall is holding his side, rolling around like he’s no longer in control of his body, which he probably isn’t, and even Liam is giggling lightly. Giggling. Liam. Louis never thought he’d live to see the day. He pinches himself to make sure he’s not dreaming (nope. It hurts like a bitch. This is definitely real life).

Zayn looks at Louis, then Niall, then Liam, then back again, very obviously confused. “What’s so funny? Where are my clothes?”

“Do tell me, Zayn,” Louis says, grinning like a Cheshire cat (because, okay, he lives for getting under people’s skin. He’s a simple man, doesn’t ask for much. He deserves this), “are you hungry? Yay or nay?”

Niall has completely lost his shit. He’ll probably die from lack of oxygen, the poor thing (and Louis was starting to like him). Even Liam laughs. It’s a short, sudden burst that lasts for about two seconds and he immediately claps a hand over his mouth, but his eyes are still shining and a laugh is a laugh, and Louis gives himself another win (what is it now? Two Louis, zero Liam? Perfect).

Zayn narrows his eyes into slits. “What do you…” He trails off, following Louis’s gaze, and frowns deeply when he sees the horse stall. “I cannot fucking believe,” he mutters under his breath, marching over to the stall with angry footsteps, “that you fucking idiots would hide my clothes. Are we all five years old? Honestly. They’re the only clothes I’ve got. What was I supposed to do if I didn’t find them? Run about killing Conformists in the nude?”

Continuing to grumble crossly, (“I’ll shoot you all in your sleep, I swear to God I will.” “There’s fucking hay stuck to them!” “I still look better than all of you.”) Zayn shakes out his clothes and proceeds to pull them on. The others stand up and begin to do the same, dressing themselves slowly as Niall continues to giggle, Louis smirks delightedly, and Liam ignores them all with his best stony face although his big brown eyes are still sparkling.

After they’ve all dressed and adjusted their respective weapons, Liam stomps out the remains of their fire (upon Louis’s insistence, because he doesn’t think anyone should be reaping the fruits of their labor, especially not a fucking Conformist who might happen to stumble upon it) with the steel heel of his boot. Once the fire is completely dead and Liam’s shoes are sufficiently coated in a layer of light gray ash, they file out of the barn in their new order—Liam and Zayn at the lead, Niall and Louis lagging behind—and continue to follow the edge of the forest towards, hopefully, London.

The mood is light and cheerful after their simple little prank on Zayn. The weather is pleasant despite the puddles of water and dirt that they slosh through, and for the first time in awhile Louis is able to ignore the gnawing hunger in his belly. They spent a good bit of the day before gathering blackberries from a grove near the barn, but it wasn’t enough to keep their hunger at bay for long. It was never enough, considering they only ate every other day—if that—and what they did eat usually had little to no substance. Sometimes they stumble upon an abandoned market and find some bags of crisps (extremely stale, much to Louis’s chagrin, but beggars can’t be choosers) or artificially flavored, colored, and made cookies that suspiciously never go bad. Other times they’d scare a deer out of hiding and have a good, hearty dinner, but Louis doesn’t like those times. He doesn’t like to kill anything, especially not innocent animals that honestly don’t know any better (he would much rather be eating those godforsaken stale crisps). But most of the time they’re eating handfuls of berries, horribly bitter pine tree bark, or puny fish they’ve managed to spear in a stream. It’s not ideal by any stretch of the imagination, but at least they’re alive, which is more than most Rebels can say.

Niall, on the other hand, cannot ignore his hunger no matter what the situation is. Even after eating, he complains of being hungry. Even as they’re gathering food, he complains of being hungry. Even as they’re eating, he complains of being hungry. It’s exhausting and annoying and everything wrong in the world (but it’s not. It’s actually amusing. Probably because it’s coming out of the delightful blonde boy who shits giggles and pisses sunshine). Louis will admit he does his fair share of complaining as it’s one of his favorite hobbies, but he likes to think he’s not quite as bad as Niall.

Currently, Niall is reminiscing about an amazing pumpkin pastry his mother used to make in the winter months and how he’d eat a dozen, maybe a little extra because who’s counting, and throw back enough shots of cinnamon whiskey to sedate an entire army in one sitting. Zayn is strolling along leisurely at the head of the group, looking like a Grecian god (he’s literally sex on legs and it’s exhausting), smoking a cigarette and listening to Niall’s tale with a faintly amused look on his gorgeous face. Liam is only half a step behind him, holding his shotgun and looking around wearily, probably completely ignoring Niall, which he has apparently trained himself to do. Louis makes a snarky comment here and there, but for the most part he just walks along and listens, enjoying the warmth of the sun smiling down at him. It’s all very nice and almost normal. He hasn’t felt normal in so long, and he feels like he’s grasping at it, because for the first time in over a year (Jesus Christ has it really been that long since he’s taken a hot shower?) it feels like it might be within reach.

“You lads’ll have to try them one day,” Niall finishes, smiling brightly at each of them. “After all of this is over.”

Louis’s heart twists when he hears these words. He can see Liam’s eyes darken (if that’s even possible) and Zayn’s amused face fall. But when Louis looks into Niall’s hopeful face, he can’t help but smile softly back.

“That would be really nice.”

“Sounds great, Niall,” Zayn agrees quietly.

Liam doesn’t say anything, just gives Niall a weak smile and a nod.

At their responses, Niall looks like a daisy dipped in sunshine and it doesn’t warm Louis’s cold little heart at all (bullshit).

There’s a moment of silence before Liam breaks it, causing Louis to trip over his own feet in shock (he looks graceful doing it though, he really does). “My mum was shit at cooking.” Niall laughs and Louis actually swears he sees the corner of Liam’s mouth turning up. “She made a damn good cuppa though.”

“I miss tea,” Louis says wistfully.

“Maybe they’ll have some in London,” Niall offers cheerfully.

Nobody says anything. They don’t talk about the fact that London might not even be, well, there. None of them have mentioned it since their first encounter when Liam pointed out the flaw in Louis’s plan. He’s happy they don’t talk about it, because he thinks about it enough, and he doesn’t want to hear any of his fears vocalized. If the bunkers aren’t really there, where will they go? What will they do? They can’t just run to the government and fight the Conformists in their measly group of four. They need more allies, more bodies, more Rebels. And if they’re not in London, where are they? Louis pushes the thought to the back of his mind, because it’s unpleasant, and Louis is not a fan of anything unpleasant and he’ll avoid it at all costs, thank you.

Niall has begun to hum a cheerful little tune under his breath, and Louis hates to admit it, but it sounds much better than the crunching of dirt and rock and debris under their feet. Liam, surprisingly, starts humming along with him. And it successfully distracts Louis from his reservations about London (not that he was thinking about it in the first place, because he wasn’t). Instead of thinking about the potential bust that has been the entire purpose of his life for over a year now, he focuses on their stupid song, and it’s soothing and he can feel the sense of normalcy coming into range once again, and Louis is secretly grateful that they found Blondie and Brown Eyes.

“You two should start a boy band,” Louis teases. “I think it would really—“

Louis is cut off by the sound of a gun being fired and the sound of Niall crying out in agony. He watches, horrified, as red blood begins to seep out of Niall’s jacket, dripping off of his pale fingers onto the muddy ground.

Then he hears Zayn shout, “Conformists!”

Without thinking, Louis grabs Niall’s good arm roughly and practically drags him to the safety of a crumbling brick wall further down the forest line. He sits down, forcing Niall to do the same, and holds his breath as Liam and Zayn sprint after them. Only once they’re behind the wall does he allow himself to release a puff of air. Niall’s hand—the only part of his arm visible under his thick jacket—is slick with blood and his face looks paler than usual.

Louis just stares at him, mouth agape, until Liam pushes him out of the way. He would normally huff indignantly, but even he knows that now is not the time. Liam pulls a red bandana out of the back pocket of his jeans and ties it tightly around the jagged bullet hole in Niall’s left arm. When crimson stops running down his arm, Niall gives him a weak little smile (because of course he can smile after having just been fucking shot) and slumps back against the wall.

“There’s two of them,” Zayn murmurs, ripping his assault rifle off of his shoulder and gripping it tightly. “They’re up on the hill.”

“They’re just standing up there?” Liam growls. “Just standing there waiting for us to come out so they can pick us off one by one?”

“Fucking cunts,” Niall slurs.

Zayn puts a finger over the trigger of his gun, a determined glint in his eyes. “I’ll handle them.”

Louis splutters. “Not by yourself!”

“It won’t be hard. There’s only two of them.”

“You’re not doing this by yourself,” Liam says flatly. He glances quickly down at Niall. “We need to get him out of here so I can clean the wound and bandage him up proper.”

Niall snorts. “I’m fine, Payno. Don’t worry about me.” His voice is weak, but it still has undertones of his constant cheer.

“You take him into the woods then,” Zayn says, locking his eyes with Liam’s. “They won’t be able to shoot you if you’re hidden in there, and we can find a stream or summat to clean him up in.” Liam opens his mouth to protest, but Zayn speaks before he gets the chance. “You’re the only one who can carry his fat ass.”

“I take offense to that,” Niall mumbles.

Liam gives Zayn a quick nod before handing his shotgun to Niall, instructing him to hold it, carefully, please, before he scoops him up as if he’s lighter than a feather and takes off into the woods. Bullets fly after them, but they all miss (stupid fucking Conformists with shit aim) and lodge into the trees behind them.

“You stay here,” Zayn murmurs.

Louis just stares at him. “You’re not doing this alone.”

“It’s—“

“I’ll be fine. I can do it, Zayn. I won’t let you go alone.”

Zayn looks at him for a moment before nodding and glancing up over the wall. “You go to the right,” he instructs. “I’ll go to the left. As soon as you get the shot, you shoot, okay?”

Louis swallows and he thinks he whispers okay before he creeps off to the right. His heart is hammering against his ribs like a snare drum and the blood is roaring in his ears, but he keeps moving. When bullets cut through the air at him, one grazing his ear, he keeps moving. He feels like he’s going in slow motion and he can feel the blood trickling down his ear, but he keeps moving. He can’t let Zayn down. Or Niall. Or Liam. He has to save them, protect them, because he couldn’t do it for…

Everything in his head stops when he looks the Conformist before him in the eyes. There’s no fear in their murky blue depths. There’s no regret, no hate. There’s nothing. They’re completely devoid of anything. They’re lifeless, dead. And that’s the only thing that allows Louis to raise his crossbow to the Conformist’s heart, and fire.

Blood sprays from the wound just as Zayn’s gun fires into the second Conformist. Louis feels the hot, sticky liquid splash onto his face. He sees it stick to his clothes. He sees the lithe Conformist in front of him fall to the ground in a crumpled heap, blood flowing from the arrow sticking out of his chest and trickling out of his open mouth. His dead eyes look up at the sky, and they look the same as they did before, and it’s terrifying that someone could look exactly the same both dead and alive.

Louis just stares at him and he wants to feel accomplished. He wants to feel proud, because he protected his friends. He killed an evil man. He did something good for the only people he knows anymore. But all he feels is sick. Because he fucking hates this. He fucking hates killing, even if it’s for a cause, even it’s for somebody else, even if they deserve it.

Biting his lip, he reaches down and pulls the gun—a nine millimeter pistol—out of the dead man’s hand and the arrow out of his chest. He swallows, stuffing the pistol into his pocket, before he kicks the heavy man off of his shoes and steps over his lifeless form to follow Zayn back towards the forest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything has gone to shit, as in most of the UK has been destroyed by the corrupt government and nobody can be trusted. Louis and Zayn are partners in crime armed with devilish good looks, quick wit, and actual weapons. Liam is a guarded badass with a soft spot for one particular boy. Niall is a box of giggles and dick drawings, and a surprising amount of knowledge. Harry is a particularly affectionate boy with no memory of a life before Louis found him in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to everyone who has read chapter one so far, i hope you like chapter 2!!! (thank you again to raven and molly for all your help and support ilysm) tell your friends if you like it!

Louis can feel the Conformist’s blood drying on his face, pulling his skin taught, as they silently march deeper into the forest, following Zayn’s model-walk steps. Liam has Niall slung over his shoulder like a rag-doll, staring ahead through narrowed, angry eyes. Louis has taken it upon himself to entertain Niall. The Irish Rebel’s eyelids are fluttering, covering and revealing and covering and revealing his cloudy blue eyes, and his laughter is thick and slow like molasses. He’s fading like a dying star, but Louis keeps babbling and making rude comments and stupid jokes (not because he’s worried about Niall falling asleep and losing him, but because he likes to be the center of attention, and he finally can be now that Niall has finally shut his goddamn mouth, obviously).

“Niall, when all of this is over are you going to show us where your rainbow is?”

Niall giggles dopily and closes his eyes. “Oi, fuckin’ course…”

“Hey, mate,” Louis says, reaching out to tap Niall on the nose, “open your eyes when you’re talking to me. It’s quite rude, you know.”

His fuzzy blue eyes flicker open just barely and Louis smiles at him.

“That’s much better, Blondie.”

Louis ruffles his blonde hair and pretends not to notice the cold sweat that has made it stick to his forehead. Niall breaks into a weak smile and his face glows, and it’s almost like he’s not bleeding heavily as he rides along in a daze on Liam’s broad shoulder.

In the short time that they’ve been together Louis has come to be quite protective of the cheerful idiot, which is extremely annoying and not at all Louis’s style (which is a complete lie as he’s protective of everyone around him, but that’s neither here nor there and he has a reputation of detached-sarcastic-comical-model to maintain). The way Zayn steps in front of Louis when there’s danger, wakes up early to find him breakfast, and gathers wildflowers to aid Louis in his determination to smell fresh is reflective of Louis’s behavior towards Niall. It’s kind of odd for Louis to act so responsibly, but he does it pretty well, if he must say so himself.

“There’s a river up here,” Zayn tells them suddenly. Smoke slides out of his mouth and curls around his words. Louis is incredibly frustrated by the light that breaks through the trees and makes Zayn’s skin glow golden and his hair shine like the night sky. “We can get Niall cleaned up and get some water.”

“I can clean meself,” Niall says, stumbling over his words. “I’m not a fuckin’ baby.”

“You’re hurt,” Liam responds sharply. “You’re in no shape to clean yourself.”

Niall sniffs indignantly. “I’m twenty years old. I’m a man.”

“You know, Niall, you might be the manliest man I’ve ever seen,” Louis agrees.

Niall grins. “Damn right, Tommo.”

They’ve reached the river now. It twists and turns, cutting through the tall and skinny pine trees, and the water flows lazily down. The atmosphere here is peaceful, which is almost unsettling. Louis hasn’t known peace in so long. He hardly remembers it. It’s strange to feel it.

Zayn squats down at the river’s edge, cups his hands and scoops up water to bring up to his face, while Liam sets Niall gently down on a grassy patch by the water. Niall lays back and stares up at the sky under heavy lids, watching the clouds drift across the blue, and doesn’t complain as Liam unties the blood-soaked bandana from his left arm and begins stripping his layers of shirts and jackets. His chest is blindingly white. He looks like a fresh blanket of snow.

Louis sits down next to him and watches Liam move quietly, methodically. He dips the bandana in the cold water, rings it out, leaving behind a patch of deep red that slowly gets caught in the current and floats down the river, and wipes the dripping wet bandana over the bullet hole in Niall’s bicep and down the trail of blood along his arm until Niall’s skin is properly Irish and pale again. Eyes dark with worry, Liam reaches into a pocket in his leather jacket and withdraws one black and one yellow bandana (Louis can’t be the only one who thinks that’s kind of odd and excessive, right?). He unfolds the yellow bandana, lays it down over the wound, and ties it carefully. He then does the same with the black one, tying it tighter, and giving it two knots for good measure.

“You’re a good mate, Liam,” Niall mumbles as his eyes slowly shut. “Fixed me up proper…”

“I’m just glad you didn’t get yourself killed,” Liam replies quietly. “Don’t fall asleep yet though. Still gotta put your clothes back on.” He glances up at Louis. “You should wash up. You’ve got a bit of…” He trails away and looks back at Niall. “You should wash up.”

Louis nods. Liam doesn’t totally trust him yet, and normally he would snap at him indignantly or pout about it, but he can see by the tired haze to Liam’s eyes that he just wants to be alone with his friend and the only person he does trust. And Louis isn’t a bad person, so he respects that and gets up to sit beside Zayn, who has taken to staring out over the water and taking the last few drags off of his cigarette.

He gives a sideways glance, a knowing glow in his amber eyes, when Louis settles down next to him. “You did what you had to do, Louis.”

Louis frowns (how can Zayn always know exactly what he’s thinking, always, when he doesn’t even know?) and grabs a rock to throw into the river. It lands with a dull splash and sinks to the riverbed, and it’s probably some kind of metaphor for Louis’s heart or soul or something.

“He would’ve killed you if you hadn’t killed him,” Zayn continues. “He would’ve killed any of us, and then he would’ve found more Rebels and killed them too. You had to shoot him, you know that. You had to do it.”

“I know,” Louis concedes. “That doesn’t mean I wanted to.”

Zayn puffs out a thick cloud of smoke and tosses the cigarette butt into the water. “I know.”

“Do you ever look into their eyes?”

“No,” Zayn answers after a heartbeat. “I can’t do it.”

Louis laughs bitterly. “I wish I didn’t do it. I do every time though. I have to.”

“They’re not right, Louis,” he murmurs. “They’re not…they’re barely people.”

“Their eyes are empty. They don’t have anything, nothing, Zayn. Not even hate. You’d think they’d at least hate you, you know? They should hate us, because we hate them. They should look at me like they want to kill me.” He swallows and looks down at the frostbitten grass at his feet. “They don’t look at me with anything though. They don’t feel anything. They just kill, like they’re programmed to, like…like they can’t do anything else. They don’t care, or feel, they just do. They’re not people, Zayn, they aren’t.”

Zayn looks at Louis, searching, and is silent for what feels like ages. The breeze blows quietly through his long black hair and the sun shines down on him warmly. He is an angel (which is unbelievably unfair. Louis can’t stress that enough).

“You saved Niall too, you know,” Zayn says finally.

“No I di—“

Zayn cuts him off. “You did though, Louis. You pulled him behind that wall. I was just planning on firing back, and Liam was probably going to do the same, but you got him to safety. He couldn’t have defended himself. You saved him.” Zayn pauses before thoughtfully adding, “You probably saved me and Liam too, actually. If we’d stood there they would’ve gotten a shot off before we could. We might all be dead if it weren’t for you, Lou.”

Louis shakes his head. “I don’t think—“

“So let’s see,” Zayn says, cutting him off again, “that means I’ve got eight, and you’re up to one then, yeah?”

“You’ve saved my ass nine times, actually,” Louis corrects, feeling his mouth bloom into a smile.

“Nine to one.” Zayn stands up and ruffles Louis’s hair (which is unbelievably rude, because he already looks grimy enough without his hair looking a mess). “Everybody loves an underdog, and you’re the underdog, Louis Tomlinson.”

~~~

The sun is starting to dip down over the tree tops and the sky is painted a deep orange with streaks of crimson. They’ve been following the river’s bend all day, searching for a good spot to hide out while Niall’s wound heals. He’s slung over Liam’s shoulder again, sound asleep. His face is no longer twisted in a painful grimace, but instead it’s glazed over with a peaceful softness. He looks younger than ever, and it definitely doesn’t break Louis’s heart that someone so young and innocent has to suffer through all of this bullshit (yes it does. It shatters it into a million pieces, actually, but…details).

“We need to find somewhere soon,” Liam says, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Niall. “It’s dangerous to be out here in the dark.”

“I know, mate,” Zayn answers calmly. “Looks like there might be a cabin up there.”

Louis steps around Liam and follows Zayn’s pointed finger. There’s a rectangular shape, black against the evening sky, surrounded by bushes and brambles and still more trees. Louis bounces up to fall into step with Zayn. He glances over at him, and can’t believe that someone’s lips can pout so perfectly with zero effort, but he sees the dark crescents under his eyes and the worry in his furrowed brow and he knows that the world is no longer beautiful to Zayn, even if he’s the most beautiful thing in it.

“It’s going to be okay, mate,” Louis tells him quietly. “It’s all gonna work out.”

Zayn looks over him with a weak smile on his impeccably sculpted face. “It might all work out in the long run,” he agrees. He glances over his shoulder at Niall before looking back at Louis. “I just…what if it doesn’t work out for us, you know? What if the Rebels win…and we’re not even there to see it?”

Louis swallows, and doesn’t tell Zayn he’s constantly thinking the same thing. “We’ll be there, Zayn. We’re partners in crime and all that.” He smiles and elbows Zayn playfully in the side. “Can’t possibly make it without each other, ya know.”

Zayn grins. “Yeah, partners in crime.”

Pleased with himself, Louis nods. “That’s right. Partners in crime stick together. Always.”

“Always,” Zayn echoes, bumping his fist against Louis’s.

When Louis looks away from Zayn, he’s startled to find that they’ve reached the cabin, and it’s in remarkably good shape. The windows are shattered, shards of glass littering the ground, and the heavy wooden door is hanging off of its hinges, but the roof is all in one piece and all four walls are standing strong. Louis steps inside and sees dark green furniture (disgusting, absolutely repulsive color) arranged around a large brick fireplace. The floor is made of gray flat stones and a few determined weeds are bursting forth through the cracks between them. He walks over to the kitchenette and opens the creaking wooden cabinets and finds cans upon cans of soups, stews, vegetables, and fruits.

“Holy shit,” he breathes.

“What is it?” Liam asks, entering the house and depositing Niall on one of the horrid dark green couches.

“Food,” Louis answers. “Loads of it. We’ve hit the fucking motherload, lads.”

“No fucking way,” Zayn says, coming up to stand behind Louis. “Shit! It’s true! Liam, look at this.”

Liam walks over and stares into the open cabinet, shock and relief written on his face. “Wow.” He hesitates and scratches his head. “How can this all be here? How come nobody else has found this? It’s been over a year…somebody should’ve been here before us.”

Louis frowns. “Best not question it, Liam. Just be grateful we got here first.”

“I suppose,” he agrees uncertainly.

“Let’s eat then, yeah?”

~~~

Louis has his first uninterrupted sleep in a year and two months.

When he wakes up, he feels like he’s been injected with pure energy and it feels fucking great. The fire is crackling warmly in the fireplace, and the other lads are curled up comfortably on the hideous couches. Zayn actually slept with his rifle on the floor rather than gripped tightly in his arms, which is a miracle in itself, and in sleep, Liam actually looks quite gentle and cuddly, like a rather large dog or small bear. Niall is sprawled out wildly, drool crusted on the side of his cheek, and it’s easy to pretend there’s not a bullet hole in his arm. Everything feels so calm and honest. It’s almost like they’re just flatmates.

Louis slips his feet back into his dirty Marvel Vans and putters quietly into the tiny kitchen. Feeling particularly hopeful and domestic, he turns the knob on the sink. Dark sludge pours out into the sink, splashing on the metallic sides, and thoroughly repulsing Louis. He turns it off with great disdain and sighs. He’s a simple man, he just wants some water, (it’s important to stay hydrated. Keeps your skin clear and all that) so he grabs a yellow mug out of the cabinet and heads out of the house, pistol in his pocket, and makes his way down the little slope towards the river.

He squats (there’s no screaming ache in his bones, which is beyond pleasant) and scoops up some of the ice-cold water. Louis puts the mug to his lips, takes a great gulp, and tries to ignore the idea that he’s swallowing sediments and tiny creatures that are probably going to give him dysentery or something equally horrible.

He forces himself to finish off the mug and as he’s dipping it into the river for a second round, he hears a stick snap behind him. Louis drops the mug into the river where it sinks to the bottom with a loud splash, withdraws the pistol from his pocket, and whirls around, finger on the trigger.

“Who’s there?” he calls. “Show yourself.”

More sticks snap under shifting weight, and the intruder steps out from behind a cluster of trees. Louis can’t help but be surprised by the image that meets his eye. Standing before him is a tall, long-limbed and lanky boy. His hair is a mess of chocolate curls, his eyes are emeralds edged with terror, and his lips are perfectly tied pink Christmas bows. The boy’s skin is cream and ivory, his hands are clasped nervously behind his back, and his pointed boots are turned towards each other (if Louis didn’t have to potentially kill him, he would think he was quite endearing and even beautiful).

“Who are you?” Louis asks (his voice doesn’t tremble slightly, of course not).

“I don’t know.” The boy’s voice drips out of his candy lips like caramel.

Louis frowns. “This is no time for an existential crisis, Curly. Who are you?”

“But I really don’t know,” the boy responds, fear coloring his deep voice.

“How can you not know?”

“I woke up here,” the boy explains nervously. “Three days ago, I think. I don’t remember anything from before I got here. I don’t know anything…I don’t know who I am.”

Louis hesitates before saying, “Show me your ankles.”

The boy blinks, surprised. “What?”

“Just do it, Curly,” Louis snaps. “I haven’t got all day.”

Without further protest, the boy sits down, pulls up his incredibly skinny black pants, unzips the side of his boot, and folds it over. And there it is. The screw. He looks at Louis with wide doe eyes, searching his face for some sign that he’s not going to kill him, and licks his pretty pink lips.

Louis slides the pistol back into his pocket and the boy looks completely dumbfounded.

“You’re not going to kill me?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m not, Curly.”

“Is my name Curly?” he asks innocently (and Louis’s heart doesn’t glow at how earnest his tone is, that he genuinely believes his name might actually be Curly).

“I dunno,” Louis admits, “but I doubt it.” He sits down next to the boy and points at the thin silver chain around his neck. “Can I see that?”

The boy nods and pulls the necklace out of his white t-shirt covered in delicately drawn black hands (and it’s not cute at all. Not even a little bit. Louis hates it, in fact). Louis reaches out and grabs the small silver cross dangling off of it and examines it closely. Engraved on the back in fine cursive is “Harry Edward 02.01.2053.”

“Your name is Harry Edward,” Louis tells him. “You’re nineteen.”

Harry blinks. “How do you know?”

“It’s right here. On the back of your necklace.”

Harry grabs the cross, long fingers brushing against Louis’s, and stares at it like he’s never seen something so incredible (Louis isn’t staring at Harry the same way, if anyone was wondering). “Harry Edward,” he breathes. “First of February, 2053.” He closes his brilliant green eyes and presses the cross to his lips. “I’m Harry Edward. I’ve been alive for nineteen years. And I don’t even remember any of it.”

Louis bites his lip and looks away, feeling like he’s seen something he’s not supposed to. “I’m Louis Tomlinson,” he murmurs. “I’m twenty one, twenty two soon. I remember all of it, unfortunately.”

Harry looks up at him. His china doll face is so sweet and sad. “Why aren’t you going to kill me, Louis Tomlinson?”

“You’re one of us,” Louis answers simply. “We stick together.”

“One of us?”

“That’s right. You’re a Rebel, even if you don’t know it.” Harry smiles and dimples press into his cheeks (of course he has dimples. Of fucking course). Louis stands up, resolutely ignoring the craters in the pretty boy’s face, and looks down at him. “Come on then, Harry Edward, I’m sure you’re quite hungry.”

Harry leaps up and sways clumsily on his large feet. “Starving. And please, call me Harry.”

~~~

When Louis and Harry get back to the cabin, Zayn and Liam are sitting at the rickety kitchen table, playing with a set of cards they’d found in one of the drawers, while Niall sits, propped up against a set of pillows, eating a bowl of vegetable soup and humming cheerfully. They all glance up from their respective activities when Louis enters the cabin, and react immediately to Harry’s presence. Liam stands up, hand on his shotgun, and stares at the curly giant through narrowed eyes. Zayn slowly sets his cards down and watches him curiously. Niall wipes soup off of the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, burps, and loudly questions who the fuck Louis’s got with him (if Niall is anything, he’s charming, that’s for sure).

“This is Harry,” Louis answers simply, strolling over to the cabinet.

Harry follows him, eyeing Liam nervously, and stands by the sink with his hands behind his back.

“Hi, Harry,” Niall greets with a mouth full of soup.

Harry gives him a hesitant wave. “Hi.”

“Why’ve you got him with you?” Liam demands, hand still clasped tightly around his gun. “Who is he? Where’d you find him?”

Louis holds up a hand. “Easy with the questions there, Brown Eyes.”

He withdraws a can of chicken noodle soup from the cabinet and places it in Harry’s large hands, who then stares at it like it’s a gift from the gods that has just fallen from the sky (which isn’t adorable or endearing at all).

“Louis, you’ve brought a stranger here. We have the right to know who—“

“He’s not a stranger,” Louis interrupts, face twisting with annoyance. “His name’s Harry, I’ve already told you.”

“But—“

“He’s a Rebel,” Louis continues, grabbing the can opener off of the counter and passing it to Harry. “I found him by the river. He’s one of us, he stays with us. Simple as that.”

Liam hesitantly releases the grip on his gun and sits back down at the table. “Alright then.”

Louis gives him a curt nod before turning his attention back to Harry. He’s perched on the counter, soup and can opener in massive hand. When he sees Louis looking at him he smiles sheepishly (who the hell allowed him to be this cute?) and holds the items out to him, like a toddler giving something to his mother because he doesn’t know what to do with it, and Louis is incredibly annoyed by it, (no he’s not) but he takes them anyway. Louis opens the can slowly to make sure Harry sees what he’s doing, before pouring it into the black pot on the tiny stove and flicking the switch. The fire roars to life under the pot and a tiny amazed gasp escapes Harry’s sunrise lips and Louis doesn’t feel lightning zip up his spine, thank you very much.

“Should be ready soon,” he tells him, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Gonna introduce you to everyone, yeah?” He hops up onto the counter next to Harry, legs dangling over the edge, and claps his hands. “Lads! Come, gather round, meet our newest addition.”

“In the middle of an important game here, Lou,” Zayn mutters. “You come over here.”

Louis frowns. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m the new one,” Harry says. “Maybe, uh…we should go over there. I don’t mind.”

“No, my dear, that’s not how we do things around here. We do things the Tommo way, or we don’t do them at all.” Harry bites his smile and his round cheeks turn pink, and Louis pretends not to see, because (it’s really cute and he’s always had a weakness for cute things) whatever, he doesn’t need a reason. “Now, lads, come over here. Haven’t got all day.”

Zayn sighs dramatically before dropping his cards on the table and sauntering over, closely followed by a cross-armed Liam. Niall awkwardly pushes himself off of the couch and putters over, cradling his bowl of soup like a newborn.

“Lads, this is Harry,” Louis informs them, putting his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Harry, these are the lads.”

“Hi, lads,” Harry drips.

“Me name’s Niall,” he chirps. “How fuckin’ tall are ya? Six foot?”

Harry shrugs. “I dunno.”

Niall tips his bowl back and starts slurping its contents, causing Louis to cringe and Harry to laugh (which may or may not be what angels sound like).

“This is Zayn,” Louis introduces, motioning towards the beautiful figure with hooded eyes (does he wear eyeliner? He has to. Louis wouldn’t be surprised if he’d somehow found it, like he does with the cigarettes). “He’s my best mate and the only man I’ve ever met more gorgeous than I am.”

Zayn smiles lazily. “It’s true.”

Harry grins, white teeth glistening between his sugary lips. “I can see that.”

“I’m Liam.” He steps forward in front of Zayn and Louis raises an eyebrow at the protective gesture but chooses not to comment on it.

“Lovely to meet you, Liam,” Harry says sweetly, not skipping a beat.

Liam looks at him for a moment before turning and heading back to the table. Zayn shrugs at Louis, who is still decidedly confused by Liam’s actions, and returns to their game of cards. Niall drops his bowl into the sink and struggles up onto the counter beside Louis.

“Who’s eating that in the pot?” he asks, eyeing it hungrily.

Rolling his eyes, Louis hops down and stirs the pot with a clean spoon. “Curly is.”

Niall observes Harry for a moment. “I like your hair,” he decides.

“I like yours too.”

Niall grins and jabs Louis in the side with his foot (which is completely repulsive). “I like him, Lou. He’s quite friendly.” He scratches his chin and turns his attention back to the lanky boy sitting beside him. “Where are you from, Harry?”

Harry’s forest eyes widen. “I du—“

“Does it really matter where he’s from?” Louis cuts in, pouring the soup into a red bowl. “He’s one of us.”

Niall snorts and slides back onto the floor with a thud. “Bunch o’ cunts,” he mutters, shuffling back over to his couch. “I don’t fuckin’ care anyway.”

Louis bows down in front of Harry, regally holding the bowl and spoon out to him. “I present to you your dinner, your highness.”

Harry giggles (oh for fuck’s sake what kind of giant giggles?) and wraps his massive hands around the bowl. “Thank you, slave.”

Louis stares at him for a moment (because oh God why did he have to say slave? Louis would be his slave, absolutely, but he would never say that out loud. He can’t believe he even thought that. He’s just sexually frustrated. It’s been a year, give him a break. That’s all it is) before hopping back up onto the counter.

“Really though, Louis,” Harry continues quietly, locking his eyes with Louis’s. “Thank you.” He drops his spoon into the bowl and reaches out with his free hand to touch Louis’s hand gently. “You’re…you’re a good person, you know.”

Stomach flipping, Louis smiles and the corners of his eyes crinkle stupidly. “You’re welcome, Harry.”

“I mean, like, for everything,” he adds, dropping his voice even lower, which Louis would’ve believed was physically impossible if he didn’t hear him doing it. “Thanks for…not telling them that I…I don’t even know what a Rebel he is.” He smiles weakly and pulls his hand away. “I don’t think Liam trusts me. I think he knows something is wrong with me.”

“Liam doesn’t trust me yet either,” Louis reassures him. “And nothing is wrong with you. You can’t help…it’s not your fault you don’t remember.”

Harry shrugs and scoops up a spoon full of broth and noodles.

“A Rebel is someone against the government, because it’s all fucked.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

Louis shakes his head. “Everything. I don’t want to tell you too much right now. It would overwhelm you.” He pauses and adds, “Just know that you’re a good guy.”

Harry swallows a mouthful of soup and swipes his tongue across his lips. “Good. I like to be nice.”

A thorn pokes Louis in the heart and he looks down at the floor. Harry is so innocent and soft and everything good in the world, he can see that already, and he has no idea that he’s most likely done a lot of things that aren’t very nice at all. He’s probably killed before. He’s probably watched people he loved die. But he just wants to be good, to be nice. He has no idea that he isn’t who he used to be. He has no idea that horrible things have probably happened to him, things that would change him forever, and would make him be not so nice anymore.

Louis watches the way his curls frame his cherub face, how the light filtering through the broken window makes his skin glitter, how his long feet turn into each other, and can’t believe that someone so pure could be so damaged. He crosses his feet at the ankles and feels his heart drop like a rock. Harry can’t be nice anymore. He can’t be young and sweet anymore. He has to kill, he has to hurt, he has to fight, and Louis has never been so sad.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything has gone to shit, as in most of the UK has been destroyed by the corrupt government and nobody can be trusted. Louis and Zayn are partners in crime armed with devilish good looks, quick wit, and actual weapons. Liam is a guarded badass with a soft spot for one particular boy. Niall is a box of giggles and dick drawings, and a surprising amount of knowledge. Harry is a particularly affectionate boy with no memory of a life before Louis found him in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so as of right now, i already have chapters 1-4 written and i am working on chapter 5. so after chapter 4 is posted the postings are going to get much more sporadic, but im going to try to get a chapter up every sunday!! i hope you all like it!!!

“Stop! Please stop! Get off of me!”

Louis’s eyes fly open and he sits up, startled. The other boys are still sleeping quite soundly, but Harry, who has taken to sleeping in the tiny room adjacent to the main room is clearly not, based on his desperate cries. Louis pulls his pistol out of his pocket, holds it up with a finger wrapped lightly around the trigger, and busts into the room, expecting to find a hoard of Conformists looming over the narrow twin bed, torturing the angel that lies there.

But there’s no one in the room that shouldn’t be. It’s just Harry.

Harry is writhing around, long legs twisted up in the thin blanket, pleading with an invisible force to leave him alone, please, to just stop hurting him. Louis stares at him, mouth open (he’s never seen something so beautiful and terrifying, and he’s not sure what to do about it). Harry’s dainty shirt and massive jacket and stupid pointed boots are lying on the floor and there’s a sheen of sweat on his milky chest, easily visible in the moonlight that bathes the room. The tattoos on his thin figure stand out like sore (gorgeous) thumbs and his curls are wild and mussed from rolling around on the bed.

“Please don’t hurt me.” His voice has been reduced to a whimper, and that’s all it takes for Louis to put his pistol on the cold floor and go to him.

He grabs Harry’s wrist tightly with his smaller hands and says, “Harry. Harry, you’re okay. Harry, wake up.” When he doesn’t, Louis swallows, climbs into the bed beside him and runs his hands through his hair (which is softer than silk, Jesus Christ). “Wake up. You’re okay. I’m here, Harry, you’re okay.”

Harry’s brilliant eyes flutter open and he takes great gulping breathes. His entire (incredibly fit) body is trembling. All Louis can do is look at him. Because he’s not entirely sure what to do as he’s never been in this situation before, and he’s also never seen anything so pretty and sweet. And sad and broken. And scared.

“Are you okay?” Louis whispers, pulling his hands out of Harry’s dark curls and putting them nervously (except not nervously at all, okay, because he’s Louis Tomlinson) in his lap.

Harry swallows and Louis makes a point not to watch his Adams apple bob up and down. “I…what happened?”

“You were screaming. I think you had a nightmare.”

“I’m…I’m sorry,” he murmurs, peeling his gaze away from Louis and looking anywhere else. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m sorry.”

“’S alright,” Louis tells him quietly. Without thinking, he reaches out to brush the hair out of Harry’s porcelain face. He feels the boy freeze beneath his touch and he quickly take his hand away. “What were you dreaming about?”

The boy blinks sweetly up at him. “I don’t know.” He pauses before adding, “Thank you for coming to check on me.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll um…just leave you to sleep then.”

He rises off of the bed and feels heat flare up in his chest when Harry’s hand clamps down on his wrist. Louis turns and looks down at him, and genuinely wishes he hadn’t. Harry’s green eyes are glowing with apprehension and hope and he’s biting down on his plump bottom lip.

“Stay with me,” he breathes. “Please. I…I don’t want to be alone.”

Louis bites the inside of his cheek and nods. “Yeah. Of course.”

Harry untangles his legs from the yellow blanket and slides over (as much as a giant like him can in the tiny bed). He licks his sinful lips and pats the open spot happily. Louis toes off his shoes and settles into the bed next to him. His breath hitches embarrassingly as Harry curls up into him, laying his head on Louis’s chest and gripping his side with one of his massive hands. Louis can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t do, well, fucking anything other than feel the heat between his skin and Harry’s and stare at the rippling muscles of his back as he slowly breathes in and out and inhale the cold in his hair.

“Is this okay?” Harry asks, looking up at Louis. A ringlet falls into his wide doe eyes.

“Yeah.” Louis hates how his voice shakes, but can he really be blamed? It’s not everyday a fallen angel cuddles up to you. It actually just about never happens, and yet here he is, finding himself in that exact position.

“Can you hold me?”

It’s barely a whisper, but it rings in Louis’s head like a scream.

“Yes. Course.”

Louis wraps his arms lightly around him. His skin is soft and smooth and it feels like a sin to be touching him, like he’s touching a wounded butterfly (which Harry has a massive tattoo of across his sturdy chest, not that Louis noticed, because if he had he would’ve called it stupid or corny or something) or a falling star, but that isn’t going to stop him. Louis tightens his grip when Harry shifts closer to him and this is probably what’s missing from his arms when he sleeps at night, not Harry or anything, just somebody (but probably Harry).

For a long time, Harry is silent and Louis begins to think he’s asleep (lucky bastard. There’s no way Louis will be able to sleep, not when he feels like he’s about to burst out of his skin). But then he speaks, his gravelly voice floating up to Louis’s ears like a sweet melody.

“I lied earlier. When I said I didn’t know what I dreamed about.” Louis rubs a circle on Harry’s bicep with his thumb, so he’ll understand that he’s listening, because there’s no fucking way he can bring himself to speak right now. Harry seems to take the hint, because he continues. “I know I don’t remember anything, but…but I dream about stuff a lot. I think it’s about stuff that I should know, or maybe it’s just a dream and doesn’t mean anything. I dunno. But I dream about it a lot. It’s always the same.”

His voice catches and part of Louis’s heart breaks off and falls down into his stomach. “Harry, you don’t have to…”

Harry keeps going. “It’s always these guys—two of them—standing on either side of me and they…they’re holding me down even though I’m strapped down to, like, a table. And then another guy comes in and he’s wearing a doctor’s mask, you know the little white ones, and he’s got this big needle with some stuff in it and I ask him what it is and he doesn’t tell me. He never…never tells me. He just tells me I did this, that it’s my fault they have to do this to me, because I didn’t listen…I didn’t…I didn’t do what they told me to. And…and I beg him…I ask him to please don’t do this, because, you know, I’m scared. I don’t know what they’re going to do, but I know I don’t want them to do it.” He swallows thickly, and Louis squeezes his eyes shut. “And then he sticks me with the needle and the stuff it has it’s…it’s hot and it burns so bad. It’s like my blood is on fire and I scream and they don’t care. They never care. And he pulls out another one and does it again and it hurts…so bad…it hurts so bad. And I ask him to stop hurting me just please don’t hurt me, but he doesn’t listen. He puts this stuff on my head, like this big machine thing…and everything is dark and fuzzy and scary and they laugh and start cutting me with things and after awhile I stop feeling it…I just go numb and stare at the ceiling and fade in and out and they don’t care. And they ask me questions and I know…I know they’re talking in English and I know what they’re saying but I don’t understand any of it.”

Louis opens his eyes and when he sees the boy in his arms, he can’t understand how anyone could ever hurt him. Ever. Because he knows Harry couldn’t have done anything to deserve that. There’s just no way. But he feels better knowing that it’s just a dream. Harry can’t remember that, so it couldn’t have actually happened. He didn’t even know his own name two days ago for fuck’s sake.

“I’m sorry.” It’s stupid and entirely unhelpful, but it’s all he can say. And even if he could say anything else, he can’t think of it.

Harry pulls his hand away from Louis’s side and puts it lightly on his chest, fingers spread out and palm down. “It’s okay.” “No it’s not.” “It’s okay,” Harry says again. “It’s just a dream, right?” Louis reaches out for Harry’s hand splayed across his chest and covers it with his own. “Right.” Harry pulls his hand away (and Louis’s heart doesn’t shatter, at all) and laces his fingers with Louis’s (his heart explodes, just a little bit, or a lot, and splatters his ribs). “Thank you, Louis.” “For what?” Louis asks breathlessly. He wonders if Harry can feel his heart pounding in his fingers.

“Being nice.”

Louis bites his lip. A metallic taste fills his mouth and he knows he’s drawn blood.

“You’re welcome, Harry.”

Harry brings their intertwined hands closer to his face, presses them against his cheek. Louis can feel Harry’s eyelashes scrape across his thin jumper (along with his blood pressure spiking) as his eyes close. As he settles into the bed for an attempt at sleep, he moves his right arm down to Harry’s narrow waist and keeps it there. He rubs his thumb gently across the supple skin over the band of his jeans and when he feels it, his heart stops beating. When he feels it, his lungs stop breathing. When he feels it, his stomach sinks like a stone. When his thumb skims across the laurel tattoos, he feels the raise in the skin and it’s not right. It’s completely off. Because the tattoos were put there to hide something. The tattoos are there to hide something, something horrible and evil and wicked. The tattoos are lying over scars.

And that’s when Louis knows it’s not just a dream.

~~~

Calloused fingers brush over Louis’s cold nose, tapping it lightly. He scrunches it up, feels the corners of his mouth tugging up, but he keeps his eyes closed. His bones are heavy and he feels like he could sleep for a hundred years. The rough hand bops his nose again and another runs along the sharp ridge of his collarbone.

With a long (and probably dramatic) sigh, he opens his eyes and finds that another pair (green ones) are less than an inch from his face. He jumps back, startled, and slams his head into the paneled wall behind him with a loud “fuck!”

“Sorry,” Harry breathes, pulling away and perching cross-legged (which is wildly impressive, considering how long his fucking legs are) on the bed. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis mutters, sitting up and rubbing the fresh lump on his skull.

Harry grins dumbly (it takes everything Louis has to resist poking a finger into the deep dimple on his cheek). “I, uh, I made you breakfast.”

“You made me breakfast,” Louis repeats.

Harry bites his plump bottom lip. “Yeah.” He reaches up and runs a large (and calloused, apparently) hand through his head of curls. “I mean, only if you want it. I thought you would, you know…thought it would be nice since you had to come in here last night, since I woke you up and all that. So I made you breakfast.”

Louis observes him for a moment, trying not to think about how unfortunate it is that he’s got his shirt back on. He looks at the way his absurdly straight and white teeth (I mean, honestly, is there an orthodontist somewhere that Louis doesn’t know about?) hold his equally absurdly pink lip. Looks at the way his evergreen eyes are nervously trained on him, and how long dark as night lashes frame them. Looks at the tiny bit of peach staining the tip of his nose (why are his nostrils so big?) and the apples of his cheeks. Looks at the way his curls tumble messily down, haloing his porcelain face and tucking around his ears. And it’s all just ridiculously pure and blissful and annoying (not because he can’t touch him, or anything, because that would be stupid…or something) and makes Louis hide his smile behind a delicate hand.

“Well, that was very thoughtful of you, Curly,” he says finally.

Harry’s face blooms into a wide smile and he clambers off of the bed, stumbling over his own feet, and strolls out of the room. Louis shakes his head (with zero fondness whatsoever) and follows the gangly man-child into the main part of the house. Niall is sitting on the floor by the fire, drawing dicks on the stone with a burnt stick, and cackling maniacally at his work. Liam and Zayn are sat side by side on one of the hideously colored couches. Zayn slowly drags on a cigarette, listening to Liam talk with surprising animation about something, and raises an eyebrow at Louis when he walks out of the bedroom behind Harry (which Louis firmly ignores).

Louis plops down on the couch behind Niall, ruffles his blonde hair, and glances over his shoulder at the kitchen. Brow furrowed in concentration, Harry is pouring a thick looking chowder into a sky blue bowl. Louis only looks away when he feels a weight on the couch beside him and turns to find that Niall has joined him and is staring at him curiously.

“Why’d you sleep in there last night?” the Irish man asks, dropping the stick onto the floor.

After a quick glance back at Harry, who is rifling through the drawers, presumably in search of a spoon, Louis answers him. “Thought I heard summat in Harry’s room,” he replies, absently picking at a loose string on his jumper. “I went in there to check on him and he asked me to stay for a chat. Guess I fell asleep.”

“Oh, I thou—“

Niall is cut off by Harry thrusting a bowl and spoon towards Louis. The corners of the boy’s mouth are up in his cheeks. “Breakfast!”

Louis looks up at him. “Thank you, Harold.”

Niall slides off of the couch and settles back down before the fire, ashen stick in hand, and resumes drawing dicks on the floor. “Don’t know why you didn’t make me breakfast, Harold,” he sniffs. “I’m offended.”

Harry sits down on the couch next to Louis, eyes wide as moons. “Oh, I…I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I didn’t think…I can make you some.”

Niall bursts into cackles, slapping his hand down on the cold stone. “Fuckin’ hell!” he cries between peels of laughter. “I’m only messing about, mate. I already ate, plus Louis’s the only one high maintenance enough to require service.”

Louis squawks indignantly as Harry relaxes into the sofa (or more accurately Louis’s side) with a tender grin back on his pretty face. Louis lifts the spoon to his mouth, desperately trying to ignore the way Harry’s curls softly brush against his jaw. The way his head feels tucked into the crook of Louis’s neck. The way his thigh presses into Louis’s, and the heat that radiates there. It’s all too calm, too easy, too familiar, but he doesn’t make any effort to extract himself, because it’s also kind of normal, and he really misses that.

“We need to get moving soon,” Zayn says suddenly, glorious face obscured by a film of smoke. “It won’t be safe here much longer.”

Niall frowns. “I like it here.”

“Me too,” Harry pipes up.

Liam looks at him crossly, like he thinks Harry doesn’t have the right to speak. Which is fair, probably, considering Harry’s only been with them for about two days and he’s spoken almost exclusively to Louis, and nobody knows anything about him, but Louis still feels his blood get hot and anger buzz in his head.

“It’s not safe,” Zayn repeats. He flicks the butt of his cigarette into the fire.

“But it’s snowing real heavy now,” Niall points out as he shades his latest penis illustration. “We’ll freeze to death if we try to leave here now.”

Louis sets his now empty bowl on the ground and drapes his arms lazily over the back of the couch as Zayn ponders. Liam is watching him closely, for once not putting forth his own opinion about the situation, which is a very welcome change.

“Conformists don’t usually bother as much in bad weather, figure it’s killed us off anyway,” Zayn murmurs thoughtfully. “So…I guess we can stay till it blows over. We should be safe.”

Niall claps giddily. “Thanks, Zayn.”

Zayn snorts. “It wasn’t my call.”

“It was mutual,” Harry says cheerfully. “We all decided it.”

Liam narrows his dark eyes. “It didn’t have anything to do with you.”

Louis feels his hand tighten into a fist. “It had to do with Harry just as much as it did any of us,” he snaps. “He’s a Rebel just as much as you or me or Niall or Zayn.”

“We don’t even know him!” Liam’s face is hard, cold, like steel. “He doesn’t tell us anything. He doesn’t answer any of our questions. We don’t know where he’s from or how he got here. He won’t explain any of his tattoos. He won’t—“

“He doesn’t have to!”

“Well I don’t trust him!” Liam roars.

Louis feels Harry’s lithe body stiffen next to him. Niall turns around and stares at them with wide blue eyes. Zayn watches, mouth slightly parted, looking overwhelmed and shocked.

“I can leave,” Harry whispers.

“You’re not leaving,” Louis says firmly just as Liam says, “Maybe you should.”

Harry starts to get up but Louis pushes him back and curls a hand around his wrist. The blood is roaring in his ears and he can feel his heart beating erratically, but for once it’s not out of fear. It’s out of blinding anger. Almost rage.

“You don’t trust me either, Liam,” Louis hisses. “Would you like me to leave as well?”

Liam just stares at him for a moment. “I never said I didn’t trust you.”

Louis laughs so bitterly he can almost taste it. “You don’t have to.”

“I do trust you.”

“Then you have to trust Harry too,” he says icily. “Because I do.”

When Liam doesn’t respond, Louis stands up, still holding Harry’s wrist, and pulls him out of the cabin and into the blindingly white snow. He hears Niall calling their names, hears Zayn telling Liam in a low tone that he shouldn’t have said that, but he ignores it. He even ignores Harry repeatedly saying his name. He just keeps trudging through the snow until he can’t feel his toes or his fingers or the tip of his nose and he stops, releasing Harry from his grasp. Louis sits down on a flat rock by the side of the river, drops his head into his hands, and breathes heavily through his nose.

He feels Harry sit down beside him, knocking their knees together and tentatively touching his shoulder, but he doesn’t move.

“Louis.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

Louis frowns, but doesn’t look up. “For what?”

“Making Liam be mean to you.”

“Harry, that wasn’t your fault. Liam’s just too serious and uptight and he’s sometimes, well, a dick. But it wasn’t your fault, okay?”

“Will you look at me?” Harry asks quietly. “Please.”

Louis lifts his head out of his hands and glances over at him. Concern is written all over his china doll face, in the downturn of his pretty mouth, the way his brows pinch together over his brilliant eyes.

“It’s not your fault, Harry, honestly.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeats.

“It’s not—“

Harry shakes his head, making his hair bounce around. “No, I don’t mean…I’m sorry he talked like that to you. It wasn’t very nice.” He licks his lips and looks down. “You’re very nice, Louis. I don’t think people should be mean to you.”

_I like to be nice._

_Thank you Louis…Being nice._

Louis feels sick to his stomach, because Harry is the most innocent thing he’s ever seen, like a precious rose, and he’s been thrown into a world full of weeds that he doesn’t understand. Because Harry just wants to be nice, which is the most simple and sweet thing in the world, and he wants everyone else to be nice. He thinks Louis is nice. Louis should probably tell him that he’s not. But what would he say if he knew how many people Louis has killed? What would he say if he knew that Louis wasn’t nice? That nobody is, not anymore. He doesn’t want to think about it, because he knows it would break Harry’s large and fragile heart.

So all he says is thank you.

“I should be thanking you, actually.” Harry laughs lightly, and Louis feels himself smile at the sound. “You, um…didn’t have to defend me. They probably shouldn’t trust me, because, you know, I don’t even know anything about…I don’t even know if you can trust me.”

Louis swallows. “You can’t help that, Harry. Stop…stop blaming yourself for it, okay?”

Harry blinks up at him under his eyelashes, which have a few snowflakes clinging to them, and it’s probably the prettiest thing Louis has ever seen in his entire life.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Louis ruffles the boy’s hair, shaking out powdery snow, and smiles at him. “Don’t worry about, Liam, alright, Curly? He’ll come around eventually.” He stands up and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “We should probably head back. It’s too cold out here.”

Harry nods and stands up with a stupid drippy grin on his face. He walks alongside Louis wordlessly, bumping his broad shoulders against Louis’s. Or rather, wordlessly for about an entire minute (he’s almost as chatty as Niall, just talks a good bit slower).

“I’m not worried about Liam,” he says happily.

“Good.”

“You’re the only one I worry about.”

Louis feels his cheeks flush, but he chalks it up to the harsh breeze (even though that’s definitely not it).

~~~

The next few days consist of Louis avoiding Liam, Harry complimenting Niall on the day’s dick doodles, Zayn smoking cigarettes and shifting back and forth between Liam and Louis. Currently, Liam is out gathering more firewood and fresh water, and Zayn and Louis are sitting on one of the sofas behind Blondie and Curly—the group’s newest, most idiotic, dynamic duo—silently sharing a smoke. It’s stale and entirely disappointing, but it takes the edge off, and that’s all Louis cares about.

“When’s Liam coming back?” Niall is asking Zayn specifically, which is kind of weird, considering that Niall himself is Liam’s own personal sidekick, but Louis decides not to think too much of it.

Zayn shrugs. “Dunno. When he’s done I guess.”

“Who even cares?” Louis grumbles, tapping the ashes off into an empty mug.

“Oi, Lou, when are you dicks gonna be friends again?” Niall says, passing the burnt stick to Harry.

Louis snorts. “Never.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “You two are the biggest drama queens I’ve ever met.”

Louis sniffs and passes the nasty cigarette to Zayn, who takes it elegantly between his slender fingers.

“Is this okay, Niall?” Harry whispers, tapping Niall lightly on the arm and pointing nervously at the penis he’s just drawn on the stone.

Niall grins and gives him a big thumbs up before waggling his fingers for the stick. Louis rolls his eyes at them, because they really are the biggest pair of idiots, and he really doesn’t know why he’s so fond of them.

“Maybe give it some shading next time, mate,” Niall suggests, concentrating on his next masterpiece. “Or some pubes.”

Harry covers his giggle with a massive hand.

“You’re disgusting,” Louis tells him, turning his nose up in disdain.

Niall smiles, flashing his brilliantly white teeth. “You love me, Tommo!”

“Only because I have to.”

The rest of the day is quite peaceful and domestic. Niall eventually falls asleep, hands behind his head and feet propped up on one of the couches, and Harry takes over dick drawing duty, carefully paying attention to detail with a concentrated gleam in his eyes (how can someone look so fucking endearing drawing fucking penises? Seriously? What kind of sick joke is this?). After putting the finishing touches on the final penis, Harry yawns, rubbing his eyes with two fingers, and climbs up onto the couch. He curls up into himself (it reminds Louis of a kitten, maybe a puppy) and drifts into a slumber, face calm and flawless like a freshly fallen layer of snow.

Zayn takes the last drag off of the cigarette, blows out a puff of smoke, and tosses the butt into the embers of the fire before turning to observe Louis with a curious expression on his sinful face.

“What?”

“I think you know more about Harry than you let on,” Zayn says finally. When Louis doesn’t speak he carries on. “You slept in there with him, the other night, and you said you lads talked. I know he must’ve told you something.”

Louis looks down at his filthy shoes, suddenly finding them to be quite interesting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Louis.”

“What?”

“Is something wrong with him?”

Feeling his blood pressure spike, Louis looks up quickly. He’s about to make a cutting remark, but when he sees no malice in Zayn’s golden eyes he bites it back. Instead, he simply says, “No.”

“I don’t mean like…like something bad that we can’t trust him for,” Zayn tells him. “I just mean, you know, we all’ve got summat wrong with us. Except we tell each other, you know. But he won’t tell us. So what’s wrong with him, Lou?”

“He doesn’t remember anything,” Louis murmurs.

Zayn’s thick black brows pinch together. “What d’you mean?”

“He can’t remember anything. Like, when I found him he didn’t know his own name, or how old he was,” Louis explains in a hushed tone. “I don’t know what happened to him, exactly, but he doesn’t know anything at all, Zayn, like about his life.”

“Nothing?” Louis shakes his head. “How do you know he’s a Rebel then?”

Louis reaches up to adjust his fringe. “He has the tattoo.”

Zayn nods thoughtfully. “Is that what he told you that night? That he can’t remember anything?”

Louis can practically feel the raise of Harry’s scarred skin under his fingertips. His pained, desperate cries still ring in his ears. The terrified and tired look on the boy’s face is still painted behind Louis’s eyelids. He should tell Zayn about it, because he still doesn’t know whether or not he should tell Harry and he could use the advice, but he doesn’t want to. That moment felt important, private, and he doesn’t really want to share it with anyone.

“Lou, is that what he told you?”

“Yes.”

~~~

“It’s freezing!” Harry squeals.

Louis laughs (actually it’s more like a giggle, but to say he laughed would be more manly, right?) and shakes the frigid water out of his hair. They’re down at the river, washing their hair and disgusting bodies, which was probably a bad idea considering how cold it is out, but Louis can only go so long without rinsing the layer of filth off of his body.

He’s already had his bath (he uses the term very lightly, considering that he hopped out of the water practically as soon as he was in it) and now it’s Harry’s turn. All of his clothes are laid out neatly on the fallen tree Louis is sat on, and he doesn’t have a stitch of fabric on himself, but Louis is making a point not to look at anything other than the boy’s startled face or his broad shoulders and nice little body. He doesn’t dare let his eyes stray any further than his belly button, even though he would absolutely love to.

“The sooner you wash your hair the sooner you’re out,” Louis reminds him.

Harry nods, takes a deep breath, and plunges underwater. He comes bursting back up not a minute later, gasping for air. His hair hangs down over his eyes like a sopping wet curtain and his bright lips look a shade darker, more purple.

“I’m going to die!” he shouts, pushing his hair back.

Louis rolls his eyes. “No you’re not.”

“It’s freezing!” Harry repeats.

“Hurry up then.”

Harry shakes his hair out wildly before sprinting out of the water. Averting his eyes, Louis hastily throws him a moth-bitten towel he’d found in one of the cabin’s closets. Harry dries himself off speedily before redressing, struggling to pull his unbelievably tight jeans up with his trembling fingers.

Once he’s dressed he gives Louis a blue-lipped smile, shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, and bounces along beside him.

“How ya feeling, Harold?”

Harry grins at him. “Cold.”

“The walk will warm you up.”

When they return to the cabin Louis marches straight to the bedroom without even looking to see what the other lads are doing as he’s still making a point to avoid Liam and he knows he’s there now. Harry follows him silently and Louis can feel his anxiety practically flowing off of him in waves, despite his previous claims of not being worried about Liam. Louis shuts the door, probably a little harder than necessary, and flops down onto the annoyingly tiny bed (but he’s not going to complain, because he hasn’t been on a real bed in over a year, and a bed is a bed, tiny or not).

Harry sits down next to him and kicks his boots off. Louis does the same and stares up at the ceiling. Or at least he stares at the ceiling until he realizes Harry is tugging his shirt off over his head (and give him a break, he’s gay, sexually frustrated, and Harry is extremely nice to look at, especially shirtless).

“What are you doing? You just got out of a nearly freezing river.”

Harry blinks at him. “I don’t really like clothes. And it’s warm in here.”

“Keep your pants on then, would you?”

Harry giggles (or maybe it’s a choir of angels singing, Louis isn’t quite sure). He lays back on the bed beside Louis and joins him in looking up at the cracked, off-white ceiling.

“Are you still mad at Liam?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want you to be mad at him because of me,” Harry murmurs. “I’m the last one to come here, you know, I can…leave.”

Just hearing him say “leave” is enough to make Louis’s stomach turn.

“What? No. You’re not leaving, Harry.”

“But—“

“It’s not up for discussion.”

“Will you at least talk to him?”

Louis frowns, but he can’t just say no to such a well intended question. “Yeah.”

He’s silent for a moment, but it doesn’t last long. It never does.

“Hey, Lou?”

“Hmm?” Louis pushes down the heat that flares up when he hears the nickname.

“Have you ever kissed anyone?”

Caught off guard by the random question, Louis turns his head to look at him. Harry is watching the ceiling with a serene expression on his face, completely unaware of the way Louis’s heart is now putting on a broadway worthy performance in his chest.

“Yes.”

Harry rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I’ve never kissed anybody.”

Louis starts to laugh until Harry looks over at him and he realizes by the innocent width to his emerald eyes that he’s being serious. “I…sure you have, Curly.”

“I don’t think I have.”

“Harry, come on, I mean just look at you.” Harry’s cheeks flush bright red and he bites his smile, the dimples carving into his cheeks. “There’s no way somebody hasn’t kissed you by now. I mean, come on. Seriously.”

“Is it nice?” Harry asks quietly.

Louis bites the inside of his cheek. “Yes.”

Harry nods, apparently satisfied with this answer, and turns his attention back to the ceiling, so Louis does the same. He gazes at the spiderweb of cracks running along it and ignores the heat rushing through him when Harry removes his hand from his stomach and puts it down beside Louis’s. He gazes at the spiderweb of cracks and ignores the itching desire to touch him. He gazes at the spiderweb of cracks and ignores Harry as he props himself up on one elbow and blinks down at him. He gazes at the spiderweb of cracks and ignores Harry when he says “hey, Lou?”

“Hey, Lou?” Louis ignores him. “Can I kiss you?”

Well. He can’t ignore that.

Louis tears his eyes away from the cracks and focuses on Harry. His peridot eyes are wider than dinner plates and his perfectly pink lips are pressed together in a plump bow, and he’s staring down at Louis, eyes flickering from his lips to his eyes and back again.

“What?” Louis croaks.

“Can I kiss you?” he repeats.

“I…um,” he flounders.

Harry’s eyes widen (which really should be impossible, you know, physically). “I didn’t mean...if you don’t want to that’s fine. That’s okay. I just thought, maybe, I could. Since I’ve never…haven’t kissed anyone before. And you’re the only person—“

“You can,” Louis cuts him off breathlessly before quickly adding, “Since you haven’t.”

Harry swallows and just keeps looking at him and Louis isn’t sure he can take the way his skin feels like it’s bubbling under his burning gaze.

“Are you…are you going to?”

“I’m nervous,” Harry whispers (and Louis can’t help but smile, because it’s the most endearing thing he’s sure he’ll ever hear). “I’ve never done this before.”

“Just do it. It’s easy.”

Apparently that’s all the encouragement he needs. Harry shifts his body slightly, cups Louis’s face in his massive rough hands, and leans forward to close the gap between them. Harry’s lips are on his and the contact is beyond gentle, light as a feather. Their lips fit perfectly together, like a key sliding into a lock, and Harry tastes like sweets and feels like clouds. There’s nothing wrong or dirty about it, it’s just simple and sweet and pure and genuine (a lot like Harry). Louis’s eyes flutter shut. He kisses him back, puts his fingers in Harry’s mop of hair, and rubs tiny circles on his scalp. Harry hums into his mouth, pleased, and then he’s pulling away.

Louis stares at him, startled by the sudden loss of touch. Harry’s eyes are bright and sparkling and he’s biting his lip and just looking at him (Louis could melt, he really could, but you didn’t hear that from him).

“That was nice.”

“Yeah,” Louis breathes.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t, um, a lot,” Harry continues, running his thumb along the hollow of Louis’s cheek. “I just…I’m still nervous.”

Despite himself, Louis smiles (and it’s definitely fondly, oh God). “It’s okay.”

Harry smiles back and rolls off of him, putting his hands on his bare stomach (or rather abs). He’s quiet for so long that Louis starts to think he might’ve fallen asleep.

Just as he’s pushing himself off of the bed, planning to go get a glass of water from the river, Harry says, “Hey, Lou?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you were my first kiss.”

Louis has to hide his smile in the collar of his shirt.

When he exits the bedroom, he finds Niall spread eagle on the floor, passed out and snoring loudly. Zayn is lying on the couch, eyes closed and lips parted slightly, and he genuinely looks like a fallen angel. Liam, on the other hand, is sat at the table and wide awake. When Louis steps over the threshold, Liam looks up and immediately returns his attention to his hands folded up on the table.

He’s about to turn back around when he thinks about the curly headed idiot (he’s using the term kindly, he swears) in the bedroom behind him. Louis silently curses himself for agreeing to talk to him before he strides across the room, pulls up the chair across from Liam and sits down.

Liam looks up, clearly startled.

“We should probably talk” is all Louis says.

“About before,” Liam begins roughly, “I just…wanted to apologize.”

Louis blinks. “Right.”

“Zayn, um…he told me I shouldn’t have said that,” Liam continues, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “And I reckon he’s probably right. I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Louis agrees.

Liam licks his lips nervously, and Louis has to pretend he’s not incredibly attractive (sue him, Liam can be a dick, yeah, but he’s still great to look at).

“I just, I have trouble trusting people.”

Louis snorts. “You don’t say.”

Liam smiles weakly. “I trust you and Zayn,” he says lowly, “because you saved Niall. You protected him. And you protected me too. And I don’t…I won’t ever forget that. But Harry hasn’t done anything, and I don’t know anything about him, and I just don’t know him.”

“You can trust him.”

“I believe you,” he murmurs. “It’s just…hard for me.”

“Why?”

His eyes darken and his hands curl tightly into themselves. “I met someone before Niall. His name was Jared—Jared Greene, from Liverpool—and he told me he was a Rebel. And I believed him, because I figured if he was a Conformist, he’d, you know, kill me then and there. I was scared and lonely, so I believed him, which was stupid.” He glances up quickly before continuing. “We stayed together for a month, I think. It wasn’t very long, but it was long enough for me to trust him. I guess because I had no one else. And then…and then one night, we were camping outside of Manchester—we only went about a mile out, if even that, because we were afraid, you know—and three Conformists found us.”

“Liam,” Louis interrupts. “You don’t have to tell me any of this.”

Liam shakes his head. “No. I do.”

Louis doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

“I shot the first one, and then the second one, and I was about to shoot the third one when I felt a gun on the back of my head. And they—you know, the person with the gun—said ‘if you shoot him, I shoot you. You die either way though.’ And the voice…it was Jared.” Liam’s voice cracks and Louis looks away, because he can’t fucking see someone as manly and cold as Liam cry. He won’t. “It was Jared. He…he was a Conformist. And when he had the gun to my head he said ‘Remember when the man in the mask came to your house and shot up your family? Remember when he blew their brains out and made you watch? Remember that? That was me. I was worried I’d regret not killing you then, but I don’t, really, because this is more…fun.’”

Louis sees a fat tear plop onto the table and he dares to look up at Liam. His dark brown eyes are closed and tears are clinging to his eyelashes and running down his cheeks, sticking in his beard. His lips are puckered and his strong hands are stuck in his hair, tugging on the ends.

“I’m sorry,” Louis whispers.

“He killed my family. My whole family. I saw…their heads…how the blood splattered the walls.” His voice is trembling and hot tears are still spilling over and onto the dark circles under his eyes. “And he pushed me down into a pool of their blood after he made me watch.”

Bile rises up in Louis’s throat. “I’m…”

“Then he said ‘sometimes it gets quite boring to be a Conformist, and you have to make up your own games.’ And the other one laughed. And then Niall shot Jared, and then the other one. He…he was sleeping in a bush or summat near us, and he…he heard everything Jared said. Niall saved my life, before I even knew him.”

Liam finally looks up. His eyes are stormy and red, puffy and glistening with tears, and his cheeks are blotchy. And Louis feels like absolute shit for being rude to him, even though at the time it seemed to be well deserved.

“I’m really sorry, Louis.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

He stands up, extending his hand to Liam. “Friends?”

A small smile lights up Liam’s teary face and he envelops Louis’s hand in his own. “Friends.”

~~~

The snow keeps falling heavier and heavier, and they find themselves trapped in the cabin for far longer than they expected. It’s been about a week since they found it, and it doesn’t look as if they’ll be moving on anytime soon, considering the foot of snow and ice right outside their door. Heading out into this weather would be essentially begging for hypothermia, and it’s not worth the risk. They’ve only ever stayed in one location for three days, if even that, so to say they’re all antsy, unsettled, and flat out bored is a bit of an understatement.

And they’ve run out of soup, which Niall has become breathless from complaining about.

“I am starving,” Niall groans.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Niall, it’s been, like, twelve hours. We’ve gone a bit longer than that before, don’t you think?”

“We had food for a whole week. And now we don’t.” Niall flails dramatically on the couch. “I have to be reconditioned.”

“We’re all hungry, Niall,” Liam points out mildly.

Niall sniffs but doesn’t argue. Liam is the only one who can ever get him to shut up, and Louis is secretly grateful for that. Or, well, maybe not secretly, since they’re friends now and all that. So he gives him a warm smile and Liam returns it and it’s genuine and honest, and it still feels a little odd to see a smile curving all of his facial hair and rugged features, but it’s nice. It really is. And he does it a lot now, although it’s aimed at Zayn most of the time, which is understandable. Louis smiles at Zayn all the time too, and Zayn was Liam’s first friend in the group.

“I’m glad you two are mates now,” Zayn murmurs thoughtfully into Louis’s ear.

Louis sips the mug of hot water clasped in his hands, which is extremely disappointing and not at all like tea as Harry claimed it would be. _It’ll be just like you’re drinking tea, Louis! It’ll warm you right up. Just pretend it tastes good._ Louis felt Harry was too fragile to not drink the fake tea, so here he was, drinking stupid hot water.

“Best mates actually,” Louis responds. “You might want to watch out. He’s quickly stealing your spot in my tiny, cold heart.”

Zayn snorts. “As if.”

Louis smiles into his mug and elbows Zayn playfully. “Sleep with one eye open, Malik.”

“I’ll—“

“How’s your tea?” Harry asks, flopping down onto the tiny space between the arm of the couch and Louis. “Delicious, right?”

He grins dopily over at Louis and snakes one of his long arms around Louis’s waist and clasps him tightly. Louis pushes down the delighted squeal bubbling up in his throat (honestly, is he six years old?) and pretends the thrilled look on his face is about the mug of steaming water in his hands.

“Absolutely.” He hates the way his voice warbles when Harry is touching him. It’s completely ridiculous and not at all Louis. “Best tea I’ve ever had, I reckon.”

“I told you it’d be just like tea,” Harry hums, clearly pleased with himself.

His tongue flicks out over the arch of his upper lip and Louis absolutely doesn’t think about kissing him again (except he does, and he thinks about it being filthy and nothing like the glittering innocence of a few nights ago).

Harry slings his obscenely long legs over Louis’s and turns into him, wrapping his free arm around the front of Louis and connecting his hands at Louis’s hip. And it’s not right, it’s not. The way Louis’s heart flips and turns and performs one of Beethoven’s numbers on his rib cage is just not right.

“When we leave the cabin,” Harry says, breath tickling hot on Louis’s neck, “I’ll find you some real tea somewhere.”

“That’d be nice.”

“Lou,” Zayn mumbles, jerking Louis out of the little bubble he tends to build around Harry.

Louis blinks at him too many times and his face is turning too pink. “Hmm?”

“I was talking to you,” Zayn continues calmly. “You wanna go out and get some more firewood? We’re all out and the fire’s almost dead.”

Louis glances down at the sugary angel—all curls and dimples and warmth and pinks and greens and whites and (okay, Louis, stop)—wrapped around him and then back at Zayn. And he knows the look in his eyes says it all, says “Zayn, are you fucking kidding me? Look at him. Look at the position you’re putting me in” and that realization is what makes Louis say he’ll go with him. He untangles himself from all of Harry’s limbs and pretends not to see the pout on his pretty lips before buttoning up his overcoat and following Zayn into the frigid air.

“Fuck,” he hisses, pulling the neck of his shirt up to cover his nose. “It’s fucking freezing. Whose idea was it to come out here?”

“Shut up.”

“This better be quick.”

“It will be,” Zayn reassures him. “Liam chopped up some the other day. We didn’t have enough hands to carry it all since you and Harry were off pouting or ignoring him or summat.”

Louis frowns. “No need to sound so bitter,” he mutters. “Didn’t hear you say anything about Niall.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, he was recently shot,” Zayn retorts drily.

“Yeah, well.”

“Anyway,” Zayn continues, plucking a cigarette out of his pocket and putting it up to his lips, “I think you know why I brought you out here.”

Louis pauses and looks at his friend through narrowed eyes. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

Zayn flicks his lighter, puts the flame up to his cigarette, and takes a long drag. “Don’t be an idiot.” Louis opens his mouth to say something about how offensive that is, but Zayn gets there first. “We’re here to talk about the obvious.”

“Which is?”

“You and Harry.”

Heat rushes up to Louis’s cheeks, making them glow red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look, it’s none of my business if you’ve got a crush on each other or whatever,” Zayn says, shaking the ash from the tip of his cigarette. “And I understand if you’re trying to protect him, because you’ve clearly taken it upon yourself to do that, considering your big fight with Liam over him. But if there’s something you’re not telling me that could affect us all, I need to know.”

Louis furrows his eyebrow, genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”

“You think I don’t hear him screaming at night?”

Louis swallows. “Zayn, look—“

Zayn stops walking and locks his fiery eyes with Louis’s. “What happened to him, Louis?”

The jig is up, because he’s clearly not as good at lying to Zayn as he thought. Zayn knows Harry is…messed up, to put it lightly, beyond normal bounds. He’s not like the rest of them. Something is actually wrong. And Zayn knows it.

“I don’t even really know,” Louis murmurs, looking down at his feet pressing deep holes into the snow.

“Well what do you think happened to him? Could it happen to any of us?”

Louis bites the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know, Zayn, I really don’t.” He knows Zayn hasn’t averted his gaze, but he doesn’t look up at him. “I just…he has nightmares about people torturing him and stuff, I think. And he thinks it’s just a dream, but it’s not.”

“How do you know?”

“He talked about them cutting him,” Louis explains slowly. “And when he fell asleep I felt the scars under his tattoos. They put them on him, I think, to cover it up. So he wouldn’t know.”

Zayn is silent for a moment, which shouldn’t make Louis uneasy, because Zayn has always been like that—silent but steady—and Louis has always liked that about him. But now it feels different. It makes Louis feel nervous and anxious and jittery. Maybe because they’re talking about Harry.

“So whoever they are,” Zayn says finally, “took Harry’s memories and they tortured him while they did it?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but…”

“If that’s what you think happened, I believe you.”

Louis takes a deep, shaky breath. “I don’t know who would do that to him, or why, but I think it happened.”

Zayn’s sleepy eyes darken. “You’re sure he’s a Rebel?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then that’s probably why.”

Louis frowns. “But why would they leave him out here?”

Zayn drops his half finished cigarette into the snow. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But it can’t be for anything good.”

“You don’t think—“

“They might be coming back for him,” Zayn cuts him off, clearly on the same train of thought as Louis. “And if they did that to him because he’s a Rebel, none of us are safe.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything has gone to shit, as in most of the UK has been destroyed by the corrupt government and nobody can be trusted. Louis and Zayn are partners in crime armed with devilish good looks, quick wit, and actual weapons. Liam is a guarded badass with a soft spot for one particular boy. Niall is a box of giggles and dick drawings, and a surprising amount of knowledge. Harry is a particularly affectionate boy with no memory of a life before Louis found him in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this is prob my least favorite chapter so far BUT i hope you guys enjoy it. hopefully hopefully hopefully chapter 5 will be finished by sunday!!! let me know what you think :)

Ignoring Harry is a task much easier said than done. It’s not that Louis thought it would be easy, he just never imagined it would be this hard. But Louis can’t bring himself to face him after his conversation with Zayn. He knows he has to tell Harry what he thinks happened to him before he woke up in the woods, because maybe it’ll trigger something and he’ll remember what really happened. It’s for all of their safety that Harry has to know the truth. But Louis is afraid that Harry won’t be able to handle it (he’s so fragile and naïve, how could he?).

So he’s been avoiding him religiously.

Right now, Louis and Niall are sat at the edge of the river, washing Niall’s bandages (or, well, bandanas) and rinsing the dried up blood and goop off of his wound. Niall has also taken it upon himself to get the blood out of his (ridiculously fucking stupid) “Crazy Mofos” t-shirt and flannel. Louis had protested that it was unnecessary, because nobody is going to see his shirt and comment on how disgusting it is, and he really didn’t need to be out here shirtless when it’s so goddamn cold, but Niall wasn’t having any of it (“Louis, I might meet the love of me life tomorrow. I’m finally able to wash me damn fuckin’ clothes so I’m going to wash me damn fuckin’ clothes. Don’t be a cunt”). And Louis just wasn’t in the mood to argue, because he didn’t want to go back to the cabin and risk seeing Harry, so they’ve been out here for ages, and Louis is convinced that his ample ass is frozen to the boulder he’s perched on.

“Me nipples could cut goddamn diamonds!” Niall proclaims, tucking his chin into his chest to look down at himself.

“I wonder why,” Louis retorts.

Niall grins and bounces over to him. “Feel!”

Louis wrinkles his frozen nose. “Absolutely not.”

“Louis, come on.”

“Niall, I will not feel your fucking hard nipples.”

“Fine,” Niall pouts. “I thought we were mates.”

Louis rolls his eyes and rubs his frigid hands together, hoping to reignite their warmth. “Are you going to be done anytime soon?”

“It’s not like you want to get back anyway,” Niall mutters. “You don’t want to see Harry.”

Louis blanches. “What? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, okay,” Niall snorts. “You two were attached by the fuckin’ hip and you’re suddenly ignoring him every chance you get? You probably want to see him though. You’re right.” When Louis doesn’t respond, he adds, “Is there any reason for that?”

“’S not really any of your business,” Louis snaps.

Holding his hands up defensively, Niall raises an eyebrow. “Fine.”

“I’m sorry. I just…I have a lot on my mind.”

“You can tell me if you want to,” he says with a shrug. “Up to you.”

“Harry was tortured,” Louis blurts out, surprising himself. He claps a hand over his mouth. “I mean, I didn’t—“

Niall’s blue eyes stretch into moons. “What? How do you know?”

“He has nightmares—which I guess you know, I’m sure you’ve heard them—about people doing stuff to him, like, hurting him,” Louis explains. The words are tumbling out of his mouth like water and he isn’t sure how to stop himself. “And I guess they’re the people who took his memory. But he has scars, like, all over him…from what they did. I don’t really know anything about it, but I know it happened. There’s no way the scars are just coincidences.”

“Fuck,” Niall breathes, running a hand through his bleach hair.

“So I told Zayn about it, and he reckons I should tell Harry. Because he thinks that…that whoever did it might come back for him. Or any of us.”

“How are you supposed to tell him something like that?” Niall asks incredulously.

Louis puts his head in his hands and sighs heavily, blowing the fringe out of his forehead. “I don’t know.”

Niall plops down on the rock next to him, stretching his skinny legs out on the crunchy snow, and pulls his finally dry (most likely cold as the icicles hanging on the tree limbs overhead) t-shirt back over his head. Louis can feel the curiosity prickling his skin and he knows Niall must have a million more questions, a million more things to say, but for once in his goddamn life (apart from when he was shot) he’s being quiet. And Louis genuinely appreciates it, because he needs some time to think about what to say. Time which he hasn’t given himself at all. He’s been avoiding it in every way, shape, and form, but he has to face it.

“How would you tell him?” Louis murmurs, brushing a tiny pile of snowflakes off of his kneecap.

“I dunno,” Niall admits. “But I think you’re the only one who can do it.”

Louis frowns. “Why?”

“Well, for one, you’re the only one who actually knows. And two, you’re the only one of us he, you know, talks to.” 

“He talks to you,” Louis protests.

Niall shakes his head. “It’s different with you two, Lou. Don’t be an idiot.” He sighs and continues. “You’ve got to tell him. He has the right to know. I don’t know how to do it, but he needs to know. I’d want to know.”

“I know,” he mutters. “I just don’t want to.”

Niall stands, clapping a hand to Louis’s shoulder, and grabs his flannel from it’s spot in the v of two branches. “I know, mate.”

He slides his arms into the sleeves, gives Louis a pearly smile, and treks off towards the cabin, leaving Louis alone with his thoughts. Or, well, more accurately, his thought. Because the only thing he can think about is what Niall just said.

_It’s different with you two, Lou. Don’t be an idiot_.

Louis snorts and buries that thought among all of the others, because it’s not true. He’s not different with Harry than he is with Niall. Or Zayn. Or even fucking Liam. It’s all the same. Niall just wanted him to feel that way to reinforce the idea that Louis would have to be the one to tell him. That’s all it is. It’s not different. It’s the same.

_(It’s different with you two, Lou. Don’t be an idiot.)_

~~~

Harry is having nightmares again.

As soon as Louis hears the strangled cry rising from the bedroom, he’s wide awake, on his feet and leaping over the back of the couch. He clicks the door shut behind him and squats down at the bed so he’s eye level with the terrified boy. Harry is thrashing around wildly, making incoherent pleading noises. The curls twisting over his forehead are damp with cold sweat and his intoxicatingly perfect mouth is contorted into an awful, petrified grimace.

Louis reaches out and laces his fingers with Harry’s, and he doesn’t even have time to register the spike in his blood pressure at the contact. He has become somewhat of an expert on handling Harry’s night terrors. He knows exactly what to say and how to handle him now, and he’s not sure if he should be pleased that he can help him or feel sick from the constant need to do so.

“Harry, wake up,” he says calmly. “It’s okay. They’ll stop hurting you if you open your eyes.”

Harry gives Louis’s hand a bone crushing squeeze before his eyes tear open and he bolts up, stuttering and spluttering, but Louis doesn’t let go. And to be honest he’s not certain if it’s because Harry needs it, or he does, but either way Harry doesn’t attempt to unhook his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Harry gasps, looking down at Louis with wide-stretched wild eyes.

Silently, Louis untangles their hands, climbs into the bed beside him, and lays down on his side. Harry immediately folds himself up to fit into the curve of Louis’s petite frame. Louis ties Harry up in his arms like a present, pulling the (incredibly fit and beautiful and all things good in the world) boy against him tightly. They’re connected at every joint—knee to knee, chest to back, thigh to thigh, face to neck—and it fits so seamlessly that it feels completely natural, like something they’ve been doing for a lot longer than a handful of days. But Louis doesn’t think about how effortless it all is (except it’s at least fifty percent of what he’s been thinking about ever since he locked his blue eyes with Harry’s green ones for the first time).

“Are you okay?” Louis asks, pressing his lips lightly to the back of Harry’s neck (which, okay, is incriminating probably, but he’s just doing it to comfort him. That’s all it is honestly).

Harry doesn’t answer instantly. He never does when he’s shaken up. Where he prefers to think about his responses, Louis spits out blatant lies to get people to stop worrying about him and just leave him alone. Different approaches, Louis supposes.

“You said your birthday was soon.”

That’s truly the last thing Louis expected to hear, but he doesn’t question it. He’s learned to stop doing that with Harry, because most things the sweet lipped, doe eyed cherub says don’t make any sense. They’re just long strings of thoughts and ramblings and questions, but every stupid story and overused pun is sincere and endearing, so Louis doesn’t mind that it takes him just a bit longer, if ever, to get to the point.

“Yeah. I did.”

“When is it?”

Louis lifts his wrist up to his eye and squints at his watch (secretly grateful that his sister had gotten him the kind that tells you the time and the date. At the time it had seemed dorky and unnecessary, but things change, he guesses) in the silver moonlight. It’s 11:36 on the twenty-third of December.

“Tomorrow, actually,” Louis tells him. “Christmas Eve.”

Harry reaches up and rubs his eye with a few slender fingers, like a sleepy (albeit massive) toddler. “What’s Christmas Eve?”

“It’s the day before Christmas,” Louis explains, “which is a big holiday where you eat loads and exchange gifts. And decorate a tree.”

“Why would you decorate a tree?”

“To put the gifts under.”

“What do you decorate it with?” Harry asks curiously.

“Ornaments and lights and sometimes sweets.”

Harry considers this for a moment. “Do you like Christmas?”

Louis frowns. “Used to.”

“Why not anymore?”

“’S not exactly the same.” Louis chuckles drily. “Don’t really see much of a point in celebrating when there aren’t any presents or a tree to put them under. Or tea to drink and sweets to eat. Well, anything to eat, actually.”

“Do you miss Christmas, Louis?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

Louis smiles weakly. “’S alright, Curly.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me at all today? Or the day before?” Harry murmurs.

“I…I’ve just been busy,” Louis lies. “You know, distracted. I’m just worried we’re going to get found…or summat.”

The last part isn’t totally a lie. He is worried that somebody is going to bust down their door any day now and rip Harry away from them.

“You could have talked to me about it,” Harry points out quietly. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” Louis answers instantly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Harry grabs Louis’s hand and holds it against the ridiculous (cute, precious, adorable, any synonym thereof) butterfly tattoo on his chest. And Louis wishes more than anything in the world that he hadn’t. Because he can feel the thin, uneven line of a scar. And it makes his hand burn like he’s touched acid and his heart crack and splinter and his stomach fall down into the lower part of his body, where it now resides somewhere around his kidneys, probably.

He still hasn’t gotten around to telling Harry that his nightmares aren’t just nightmares. They’re memories. The only memories Harry has. After his talk with Zayn, Louis knows he needs to tell Harry the truth, even though he’s not totally sure what the truth is. But he has to at least tell him that it isn’t a work of his imagination, and he doesn’t really know how to go about telling someone that the only memory they have is the shittiest, most traumatic thing someone could possibly go through (“Hey, Harry, you were tortured. You know, like in real life, not just your dreams. You’ve got scars all over your incredible body. And they might be coming back to do it again. So, anyway, sweet dreams”).

There just isn’t a good way to go about it. But he has to.

“Harry,” he begins nervously.

“Hmm?”

“I have to tell you something.”

Harry cuddles more into Louis’s grip around him. “What is it?”

Louis swallows and tries to control his rapidly accelerating heartbeat. “I…um…it’s just that…”

He trails off uncertainly.

Harry giggles. “Louis, have you forgotten how to speak? I’m quite good at English. I could probably reteach you if you—“

The bedroom door creaks open, cutting Harry off, and Niall quickly darts in. Louis immediately peels himself away from Harry and moves to lay on his back and Harry turns to face him, bare chest grazing against Louis’s bicep, just as swiftly.

“Budge over,” Niall instructs, climbing onto the bed and tugging at the sheet. “Can’t deal with their fucking anymore.”

Louis gapes at him. “Fucking?”

“Did I stutter?”

“Just to be clear, we’re talking about my Zayn and your Liam? Fucking?”

Niall rolls his eyes and tucks his skinny legs under the covers. “Not so much fuckin’ as giving each other handies.”

Louis wrinkles his nose in disgust while Harry giggles like a toddler who’s just heard his first sexual reference. “Thanks, Niall, for that mental image.”

“You asked.” Niall narrows his crisp blue eyes and looks at the way Harry is squeezed completely unnecessarily up against Louis (bright red blush doesn’t tint Louis’s cheeks, thank you very much, because he has nothing to blush about. It’s not like they did anything, or Louis thought about doing anything, because he would never). “Don’t tell me you guys are too?”

“What?” Louis nearly chokes.

“Have you two been suckin’ each other off?” Niall demands, pointing an accusing finger at them. “There has to be somewhere I can sleep in peace.”

“What? No, I—“

“What does that mean?” Harry interrupts sweetly.

Louis blanches. “You can’t be serious.”

“Ya never heard of suckin’ off, Harry?” Niall asks incredulously.

Harry shakes his head. “No.”

A wicked grin spreads across Niall’s face.

Louis claps his hands over his own face and slumps back against the headboard. “This can’t be happening.”

“You know when you have a wank?” Niall begins. Louis can practically feel Harry flushing deep red at such a naughty term. “’S like that, but with your mouth.”

Louis dares to peek through the gap in his finger and sees Harry’s eyes nearly bulging out of his head. “You can do that?”

“Oh my God,” Louis groans.

A peel of laughter erupts from Niall. “Not to yourself, mate! Somebody else has to do it for you.” He sighs as if fondly reminiscing a day back in Ireland, out on the lake with his family. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“Oh my God,” Louis repeats.

“Can’t be done,” Niall finishes with a shrug. “Anyway, they’re really quiet about it. It’s incredible, actually. Very impressive work.”

“For fuck’s sake, Niall.”

“I think they’ve been doing this for awhile,” he continues breezily as if this entire ordeal wasn’t torturous and wildly uncomfortable. “Woke up cause I had to wee and I saw them going at it, so I ran in here. Think they put some of Liam’s bandanas in their mouths so that they’ll—“

Louis’s hands drop from his face to point at Niall. “I knew it! I knew that had to be some kind of weird kink. Nobody has that many bandanas. They just don’t.”

Niall frowns. “You’re gross, Louis.”

“Are you kidding? You just talked about attempting to suck your own goddamn dick and you’re calling me gross?”

Niall shrugs and readjusts his position in the bed. “Details.”

He rolls over, kicking Louis in the gut. “Niall!”

“Sorry, Lou.”

Louis sniffs before rolling onto his side, back to Harry’s lush body and Niall’s repulsive feet, and closes his eyes. There’s a glorious minute of silence during which Louis actually (quite foolishly, he will admit) thinks Niall and Harry have fallen asleep. Until Harry speaks.

“Hey, Niall?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s a handy?”

“It’s like—“

Louis groans loudly. “Please stop. I just want to sleep.”

Niall laughs delightedly.

“Sorry, Lou,” Harry murmurs.

“’S okay, Harold.”

Another heartbeat of silence.

“Hey, Niall?” Harry whispers, far more quietly than before.

“Yeah?” Niall whispers back.

“What’s a—“

“It’s like when you have a wank,” Niall hisses through the dark, “but somebody else does it to ya.”

Harry lets out an awed breathe. “Wow.”

Louis shoves his face into his pillow, because it’s unholy for him to be fucking endeared by someone asking questions about sexual favors. It is completely ridiculous and unheard of, and yet here he is, fawning silently over Harry’s stupidly sweet and innocent questions. Not only that, he’s lost any chance of telling Harry the truth. He can’t exactly drop the atomic bomb on him after a conversation about the intricacies of wanking, blowjobs, and handjobs. But he swears that he will tomorrow as he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.

~~~

Louis wakes up alone.

Normally, he would beg for this, waking up by himself. He remembers always enjoying it at home, before everything happened. It was like a moment of peace, and bliss. But now, he just feels cold and lonely, and the bed feels empty and it just doesn’t feel right. He pushes away the thought that his new feeling has been brought on by Harry’s absence, because Niall was there too. The bed had been crowded and now he’s alone, that’s all.

He sits up, slides the threadbare sheets off of his legs, and laces up his Vans. Then he pockets the pistol and shoulders his crossbow and pads out of the room.

The fire is glowing orange and gold, bright flames licking at the bricks. Zayn (who he’s not certain he could look in the eye right now) and Niall are gone, and oddly enough, so is Harry. He hasn’t been apart from Louis, well, ever. Louis wasn’t really expecting him to leave the room, much less the cabin entirely. But Liam is there, leaning back on one of the rickety chairs at the table and absentmindedly shuffling the deck of playing cards.

“Morning,” Louis mumbles as he heads over to join him at the table.

“Louis, happy birthday!” Liam says cheerfully. “How are you?”

_Happy birthday!_

Louis blinks as he pulls out a seat at the table. He’d completely forgotten that it was already Christmas Eve and he’s already twenty two (though as far as anyone else is concerned, he’s nineteen, young and fresh as a daisy). Thoughts of his mum bringing him tea, eggs, toast and jam in bed, and his sisters rushing into his room shrieking and thrusting presents towards him, start to crowd his mind and push out his memories of last night’s conversation. He’s not sure which one he’d rather have in his mind.

“Fine.” He glances around the room, pretending it doesn’t feel completely and utterly empty in Harry’s absence (it’s probably Zayn or Niall that he’s missing). “Where is everyone?”

Liam reaches up and scratches his thick beard. “Zayn and Niall went out to look for food.”

“And Harry?”

“Dunno,” Liam mutters, very obviously avoiding Louis’s gaze.

“You don’t—“

“Do you want to go get some firewood?” Liam interrupts, pushing back his chair and looming over Louis. “We’re running low, and it might be fun!”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “You’re starting to sound about as upbeat as Niall,” he comments. “Be careful or you’ll start shitting rainbows and sunshine and clovers or summat.”

Liam laughs—a loud and uproarious thing—and Louis actually shuffles backwards he’s so taken aback by the sound (seriously, is he actually Niall in disguise? Louis has only ever heard a noise like that come from the jovial Irishman). Liam flashes Louis a nervous smile before picking his shotgun up off of the table and heading out of the front door, and Louis hesitantly follows.

It’s really fucking cold outside—colder than it has been all year. His extremities are already numb and he’s quite certain that the blood in his veins is starting to freeze and shatter, despite the fact that he’s nearly sprinting after Liam through the snow. He follows Liam closely, stepping into the large dents that his heavy boots have left, and holds the collar of his overcoat tight against his aching ears.

He would complain, but he’s not sure he can even get his blue lips to move, much less have words come out. Plus there is the small matter that firewood is necessary for survival or whatever, and not even Louis is going to complain about something that’s going to keep him alive for another day. He quite likes living, and he won’t be biting the hand that feeds him, thank you.

But Louis can’t possibly keep his mouth shut when he sees Liam turn right at the lumpy boulder that signals their massive store of firewood.

“You’re going the wrong way,” he points out, words sticking to his mouth like ice.

Liam pauses and stares at Louis with ridiculously gooey, anxiety filled eyes. “Uh, right…yeah,” he stumbles. “We, um…moved it to this side yesterday! Didn’t you know?”

Louis frowns. “Nobody bothered to mention this fact to me.”

Eyes darting back and forth, Liam swallows. “Uh. Yeah. Sorry.”

“Why are you being so weird?” Louis demands, putting his icy hands on his hips.

“Weird?” Liam echoes in a high-pitched tone. “I’m not being weird.”

Louis snorts. “Mate, you’re being a proper nutter. What’s going on?”

“Louis, honestly, nothing is going on,” Liam assures him. “Really. Let’s go.”

Without giving Louis a chance to respond, Liam sets off in the wrong direction again. Louis sighs heavily, blowing out thick puffs of white, and stuffs his hands into his pockets. Something is going on, (Liam is truly the most horrendous liar Louis has ever seen. It’s actually incredible how bad he is) but Louis is too cold and apathetic to bother pressing him any further.

It seems like a lifetime has passed when suddenly Liam whirls around and covers Louis’s sea foam eyes with a thick hand.

“Liam! What the fuck are you—“

“Just shut up for two seconds, will you?” Liam snaps, sounding much more like himself.

“How am I meant to just shut up when you’re—“

“Shh!” Liam hisses.

Louis frowns. “Can you just—“

“I’m going to take my hand away,” Liam says, interrupting Louis for the hundredth time that day. “But you have to keep your eyes closed. I’ll tell you when you can open them.”

“Why?”

“Will you just do it, Louis?” Liam whines. “Please?”

Louis groans. “Alright, whatever, fine. I’ll keep my eyes closed.”

“Perfect.”

When Liam pulls his hand away, Louis resists the urge to open his eyes just to be defiant. He feels Liam grip his bicep and lead him through the snow. The wind is cutting through his skin like razor blades, so they must be in a clearing at this point, because he doesn’t feel nearly as protected as he did in the trees.

“If you’re taking me somewhere to murder me, you better hurry up or hypothermia is gonna beat you there,” Louis mutters crossly.

He can almost feel Liam rolling his eyes. “Just shut up.”

“Where the hell are you taking me?”

“You’ll see.”

Suddenly Liam puts his sturdy hands on Louis’s chest to stop him from walking any further. “Okay, we’re here.”

“Can I open my eyes?”

“Go ahead.”

Louis blinks and squints at the bright reflective lights hitting his eyes. When his vision adjusts, he sees a large fir tree. Louis’s breath is tight in his throat as he walks up to the tree to view it more closely. It’s a Christmas tree. A proper Christmas tree. He hasn’t seen one since his twentieth birthday.

Dangling from its powdery branches are a handful of long dead lightbulbs, beyond faded sweet wrappers, and empty soup cans with the labels peeled off. Sunlight bounces off the metallic like stars. Old brown brambles and ivy are wrapped around the tree like a garland. Louis reaches up and touches one of the wrappers. It crinkles between his fingers and his eyes crinkle to match as he grins. He’s stupid, so stupid, to be smiling right now, because it’s negative something degrees and he’s practically ancient now (because yes, twenty two is ancient) and somebody could come up and shoot him right in the head any minute now and the ornaments are fucking trash and dead plants. But it’s a Christmas tree—a real Christmas tree—like he used to decorate with his sisters (or, well, watch them decorate. He always preferred pretending to be busy) and for once he remembers something happy, instead of something that makes him feel sick to his stomach.

He jumps (and no he doesn’t shriek) when Niall leaps out from behind the tree and wraps his arms around Louis’s shoulders. Zayn strolls out lazily behind him, puffing on his ever-present cigarette.

“What do ya think?” Niall asks, basically screaming into Louis’s ear. “Been here all fuckin’ morning working on this piece of shit for your fuckin’ birthday, but I think it looks pretty damn good. Do you like it?”

“I love it,” Louis croaks.

Niall beams. “I got the soup cans,” he announces proudly.

“Try not to take all of the credit, Niall, would you?” Zayn says, mildly amused.

Niall releases Louis from his embrace and shrugs. “I did get the cans.”

“We know.” Zayn passes him and smiles warmly at Louis before pulling him into a hug, which Louis quickly returns, because this is a rare and incredible occasion. “Happy birthday, Lou.”

Louis feels himself grinning into Zayn’s narrow shoulder. “Thanks, mate.”

Zayn pulls away, still smiling, and nods towards Liam. “How’d he do?”

Louis snorts with laughter. “He was shit, actually.”

“Hey!” Liam huffs indignantly. “I did pretty good!”

“Sure you did, love,” Louis agrees.

“I got you here, didn’t I?” Liam grumbles, crossing his arms and looking away.

Louis grins and tickles Liam’s facial hair. “I’m kidding, Brown Eyes. Buck up.”

Zayn drops the remains of his cigarette onto the ground and rolls his eyes fondly (which, gross. Louis just remembered last night’s shit show). “You did a good job, Liam. I’m impressed you managed to get him out of the cabin at all.”

Liam smiles down at his heavy boots. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Zayn murmurs. He looks back at Louis. “Anyway, the one you should be thanking for all of this is your good friend Harry, you know.”

Ignoring the warmth in his chest, Louis blinks. “Really?”

“Harry, come out then, would you?”

Harry shuffles out from behind the tree, grinning sheepishly. His nose and cheeks are pink with cold and his gangly arms are wrapped tightly around himself. “What do you think?” he asks, nervously meeting Louis’s gaze.

Louis bites his smile back. “I think it’s pretty cool.”

Actual rays of light shoot from Harry’s delighted face. “Yeah?”

Louis nods dizzily. “Yeah.”

“It was really all Harry,” Zayn continues, making Louis jump (because quite frankly he’d forgotten anyone else was there).

“Oi!” Niall objects. “Without me there’d be no fuckin’ cans on that tree.”

Zayn snorts. “Without you they’d still have some food in them, you fat ass.” He glances at Louis with a cloudy look in his amber eyes before nudging Niall and nodding towards Liam. “Let’s go get the fire started.”

As they trudge past, Niall claps Louis on the back. “See ya in a bit, mate.”

Louis watches them disappear through the trees—Niall bouncing around and cackling, Liam and Zayn brushing shoulders and following more slowly—before returning his attention to Harry. He’s rocking back and forth on his heels, grinning dumbly and pushing his mop of hair out of his face. Despite his stubborn determination to be indifferent and strictly friendly, Louis feels his eyes crinkling up stupidly and his lips turning up (they’re alone and nobody needs to know about this mishap, right? Being alone is basically a get out of jail free card as far as he’s concerned).

“So this was all you?”

Harry shrugs. “No, not really. They helped.”

Louis pokes a finger into Harry’s dimple, completely platonically, of course (let him live). “Don’t be so modest, Harold. Take credit for what’s rightfully yours.”

Harry reaches out and runs a finger along the crisp line of Louis’s cheekbone. “Okay, but only because you told me to.” He clasps his hands together behind his back and leans back on the heels of his boots. “It was all me, every bit of it. Even the cans, you know. Niall is a filthy liar.”

And then he has the audacity to wink, which turns Louis’s innards to liquid.

Louis laughs and shoves his frozen hands back into his pockets. “I’m flattered that you’d go to so much trouble for me.” He blames his trembling voice on the cold.

“You’re worth it,” Harry answers simply.

Heat sears Louis’s cheeks as he looks down at his Vans wedged in the snow. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Harry ducks down to lock eyes with him, white teeth shining in the weak winter sunlight. “Not very like you to be so shy,” he sing-songs. His tone and green eyes suddenly grow serious. “You look quite pretty with snowflakes on your eyelashes, you know.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

Harry laughs and pulls himself back up to his full height. “Look at me, would you?”

“Why?”

“So I can kiss you.”

Immediately, Louis looks up at him, eyes wide and mouth dry. “What?”

“So I can kiss you,” Harry repeats quietly.

Louis returns his attention to his shoes, which have suddenly become extremely interesting yet again. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Maybe not,” Harry admits, “but you can think of it as a birthday present. Just a birthday kiss. It’s not everyday you turn twenty two.”

“Well, that’s true,” Louis agrees slowly.

He can feel Harry giving him a lopsided smile even though he’s still not looking at him.

Softly, Harry cups Louis’s slender face in his large callused hands. Louis longs to go through with this, to kiss him, (which isn’t something he’d ordinarily admit, but it’s his birthday so he’ll allow it) but when he tilts his head up and sees the warmth and heat and purity of Harry’s emerald eyes, he can’t do it. He’s so innocent and sweet, and way too good for this world. He’s way too good for any world. He belongs on Mount Olympus with the other gods, or maybe on his own fucking mountain, in his own heaven, because he’s better than anything or anyone that has ever or will ever exist, that much Louis is sure of. And he can’t allow Harry to kiss him, because he’s not good enough for him. Plain and simple. How long has he been avoiding the truth? How long has he known about Harry’s dark past, and just not told him? Far too long to be worthy of existing in the presence of Earth’s only angel, much less kissing him.

Louis shakes his head. “Stop.”

Hurt pools in Harry’s eyes and he drops his hands awkwardly to his sides. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not…” Louis reaches up to nervously adjust his fringe. “It’s not you.”

Harry frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“I have to tell you something.”

“Okay.”

Louis gulps, swallowing the bile threatening to rise up in his throat. “It’s about…about your dreams.” He pauses, hoping Harry will stop him, tell him that he knows, but the doe-eyed boy just keeps observing him curiously, so Louis pushes himself to continue. “They…or at least I don’t think…no I know—“

“Louis, what is it?”

Unable to meet his gaze, Louis stares down at the glittering white snow. “They’re not just dreams,” he whispers hoarsely. “You have the scars—under your tattoos—from what they did to you.”

Harry stays silent for a torturous amount of time. Louis is staring so intently at the ground that he’s pretty positive it’s going to burst into flames soon. He must hate him now (he would hate himself, no doubt) and he can’t bring himself to look at him and not see the warmth and happiness sparkling in his eyes. That would be too hard.

“How long have you known?” Harry asks finally.

“I…I don’t know,” Louis lies.

“Louis.”

“I realized it the first night,” he responds, forcing himself to look up again.

Harry’s face is cold and carved like stone. His eyes are dark and shadowed, guarded. And it hits Louis like a ton of bricks. Louis can feel the weight punching him in the gut. He can feel the breath being knocked out of him. He can feel the sweet perfumes of Harry being ripped out of his hair by the breeze. He can feel the cold settling into his bones where Harry had once funneled warmth. Everything that was once soft and familiar is gone now, evaporated into thin air, just like that. The bile starts rising up in his throat again.

“You’ve known this whole time,” Harry says stiffly, “and you didn’t tell me.”

His tone is like a slap in the face, which Louis completely deserves, but it still stings. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you…I didn’t know…I didn’t know how. How can you…I don’t know…how do you tell someone you care about something like that?”

“You don’t care about me.” The words are acidic and burn Louis right to his core.

“Harry, yes I do. I care so much. You have to believe that.”

It sounds pathetic and pleading even to his own ears. Louis begs for no one, but he’d beg for Harry until he lost his voice, until he lost his fucking mind, and he wouldn’t stop. He would know how much he’s worth even in madness.

“If you cared, you would’ve told me. That’s something I should know. I…I tell you everything, Louis. I tell you everything.” He shakes his head. “And you couldn’t even tell me something that fucking important?”

Louis actually flinches. He’s never heard Harry swear. It’s wrong to hear such ugly words come out of those pretty pink lips.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he whimpers (he’s pathetic, so so pathetic). “I never meant…please forgive me.”

“I don—“

Harry’s words are cut off by the sound of a bullet flying through the air. It hits the Christmas tree just behind Louis’s head, crunching and ripping the metallic of one of the soup cans.

Instinctively, Louis pushes Harry roughly onto the ground behind the tree, and tosses the pistol in his pocket at him. Harry stares at him wildly, holding the gun like it’s, well, something that can kill you. There isn’t time for explanations though (which, great, there’s another thing he’s never told him about. Harry still doesn’t even know what the fuck is going on or who they’re fighting. Great job, Louis. Ace performance). He ducks down next to him behind the tree and readies his crossbow, aiming it through the thing green branches at the exposed chest of one of the Conformists walking towards them. There’s only two, and there could easily be more somewhere else, but his knees aren’t wobbly and his fingers aren’t trembling. All he can think about is protecting Harry.

Before Louis can even release an arrow, he hears the deafening fire of a gun—twice—and the Conformists crumple to the ground. Blood pours thickly from quarter-sized holes in their foreheads, tainting the pristine white snow. Louis gapes at them, in shock, and looks back, half expecting Zayn to be standing behind them, holding a freshly fired assault rifle. The only person there is Harry, and the pistol falls out of his right hand and he stares at it with wide eyes as if he’s expecting it to go off again.

“Harry—“

“I killed them,” Harry breathes. He looks at Louis, eyes wide as moons.

“It’s okay,” Louis reassures him immediately, sliding the strap of his crossbow back onto his shoulder and moving to sit closer to him.

Harry blinks. “What? How is that okay? I killed them. I killed people, Louis.”

“They were Conformists,” Louis explains gently. “You had to. I know…I know how you feel. I hate to do it, but—“

“You’ve killed people too?” Harry interrupts incredulously.

Shame burns Louis’s cheeks. “I didn’t want to.”

“But you had to?”

“Yes.” Harry swallows and rests his head against Louis’s shoulder. He can feel the boy’s heart thumping erratically in his temple. “Why do we have to?”

“They’re bad people, Curly,” Louis murmurs, idly twirling a curl around one of his fingers. “I can explain more later, okay? But we have to go find the lads and get the hell out of here.”

Harry’s head jerks up. “We’re going to leave?”

“We have to.”

“Where will we go?” he whispers, terror edging his irises.

Louis bites his lip. “I don’t know,” he admits, “but we’ll find somewhere. We always do.”

He puts the warm pistol back into the pocket of his jacket before he stands up and reaches his hand out for Harry’s. For a moment, Harry just stares at it uncertainly, and Louis is positive he still hates him and he won’t take it. He’ll just get up and leave and find his own way out. Louis can’t bear the thought of it. But then Harry grabs his hand, slides his long fingers in between Louis’s, and stands up.

~~~

They move straight through the night, only pausing to get water or shake the snow out of their shoes and hair. Louis and Harry had run into the rest of their group on the way back to their makeshift home. Liam reported that a Conformist kicked the broken front door to the ground while they were making the fire, and he shot him through the chest. Niall then solemnly informed them that his dick illustrations were ruined when, in his shock, he dropped a mug of water on the stone floor, where it shattered and washed the charcoal drawings away. Zayn stayed silent, and so did Louis, because they were both thinking the same thing: they came back for Harry.

Now, they were out of the forest and crunching across a cracked street covered in a layer of ice. As per usual, Zayn and Liam were in the lead, Niall was in the middle of them as he was still recovering from his wound, and Harry and Louis brought up the rear. None of them had spoken since their initial meeting, which Louis didn’t mind at all. He was almost thankful for it. He didn’t want to have to explain everything to Harry. Not yet. Which was probably selfish, but he never claimed to be perfect. Harry was perfect, though, and he didn’t want to tarnish him.

Their hands were still laced together, and Louis wasn’t complaining (he was thrilled, in all honesty). It was reassuring, because he feared he had lost Harry forever. He had felt it so clearly in that moment when his betrayal sliced Harry open like a knife, but the events with the Conformists seem to heal his wounds. At least for the time being. So he didn’t question their contact or try to pull away to save his own pride as he might have before. Now that he knew what it felt like without Harry, even if it was only for a second, he wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize their relationship.

Louis looks over at him and studies the changes that are already apparent. Once the color of spring, he now seems like the dull of winter. His eyes aren’t as bright, aren’t as innocent and playful. His lips are tied together tightly and his skin, once so warm and supple, now seems to have the coldness and smoothness of porcelain. He is entirely breakable, barely held together, and it hurts Louis entirely too much. He gives Harry’s rough hand a gentle squeeze, because he isn’t sure what else to do at this point. There’s little comfort he can offer, other than lies, and he’s not about to fucking do that again. Harry glances at him and the hardness in his grassy eyes softens immediately, which makes the contents of Louis’s body (skin, bones, organs, blood, the whole lot) melt into a pile of pathetically endeared mush. When Harry squeezes back it’s almost too much for him to take. Louis looks away and forces himself to bite back the smile that’s threatening to push forth. Now is definitely not the time for sappy bullshit.

The black sky is beginning to fade into a pale pink by the time they stumble upon a new safe haven. It’s an old pub, and, to quote Niall, it’s “fuckin’ sick if there aren’t any pints in here I’m gonna be fuckin’ pissed!” The windows, as usual, have no glass left in them, but there are thick black shades pulled tautly over them. It’s warm enough (or at least warmer than the fucking arctic outside) and there’s even some stale crisps and (low and behold) some pints.

Niall immediately sets up camp at the bar, hoarding all of the pints and munching happily on the stalest crisps Louis has ever tasted. Liam and Zayn settle down on the hardwood floor directly across from the door. Liam keeps his shotgun at the ready, watching the door obsessively despite the heavy bags under his eyes, while Zayn slumps beside him and closes his gorgeous brown eyes.

When Harry makes a beeline for the old office (he’s very into privacy, apparently, as he’s always choosing the room away from everyone else. Or maybe he still feels like he’s not a part of the group, and that’s why he chooses isolation) Louis bites his lip nervously. Is he allowed to follow him? He wants to, but he now feels like there are boundaries between them, and that sleeping by him might cross one or two. But when Harry reaches the doorframe and glances over his shoulder expectantly, Louis practically sprints over to him (except he’s totally calm and cool and controlled about it. Aloof, some would say).

Inside, there’s a dusty desk covered in receipts and useless mildewed papers, and that’s about all there is. It’s not a glamorous living, that’s for certain, but it’s indoors and they’re safe here. For now, anyway.

Harry sits down in the middle of the room, motions for Louis to join him, and hugs his knees against his chest. Louis sits down across from him, crossing his legs, and watches him closely. There are deep purple circle under his crisp eyes and his sugary bottom lip is held by his pearly teeth. He looks exhausted and Louis wants nothing more than to hold him while he sleeps through his memories, but he can tell by the way Harry drums his slender fingers on the hardwood floor that he’s too busy thinking to sleep.

“Can you tell me now?” he asks quietly.

“What do you want to know?” Louis asks, reaching out to still his restless hands.

“Everything.”

Louis nods. “Okay. Well, I guess it’d be best to start at the beginning, yeah?”

Harry doesn’t smile, but Louis can see his dimple fighting to burst forth, and his heart flutters. “Yeah.”

“It all started about a year and a half ago, give or take a few months,” Louis begins carefully. “The monarchy was overthrown by a democracy before we were born, and for a long time it worked smoothly. We had a say and we liked our president, even if it was unheard of for us to operate that way. He was a good man, or at least that’s what my mother told me, but then I was four, I guess, he died and the vice president took his place. He wasn’t a good man, but it wasn’t obvious at first. Over time, he became more…ambitious, and cruel. If you weren’t a member of the government or extremely wealthy, he didn’t care about you. He took things away from those people.”

“Like what?”

Louis snorts bitterly. “Everything. He took away our right to vote, our healthcare, public education. If you couldn’t afford private school, you didn’t go to school. You became a worker—only jobs you can do without an education, like factory work or mining, stuff like that—and lived the rest of your life that way. You worked seven days a week, no benefits, no safety, nothing. Bosses could punish employees however they wished, and there was nothing that could be done. Then these people began to consider themselves Rebels. Legend says the Rebels were started by the president’s son, but I think that’s bullock. Nobody his name or what he looks like or anything, but it’s a nice idea I guess. Anyway, we got the screw tattoo on our ankles as a sign of solidarity, because they just saw us as parts, but things can’t work without screws to hold them together. You get it?”

Harry nods slowly. “That’s why you made me show you my ankles when you found me,” he says thoughtfully.

“Right,” Louis agrees. “Anyway, everybody was pretty fucking pissed. We started to call the people who just did whatever the president said Conformists. They didn’t have any morals. They don’t have anything. They just care about money and themselves. Some people think the president brainwashes them, and there’s definitely something wrong with them…but I don’t know about all of that. But anyway, like I was saying, by the time I was twenty and you were, I guess, seventeen, there was a definite divide between Rebels and Conformists. There were little uprisings here and there, but nothing major, until they dropped the bombs on Manchester. That’s when we realized it was going to be a full out war, everyone sought safety and solace in each other, but it was hard to know where we were safe. A lot of us split up to make our towns less of a target. But they didn’t care, they bombed us anyway.”

“So they kill us because the president tells them to?”

Louis nods. “Right.”

Harry frowns. “Why?”

“I don’t know. He’s a cruel man, Harry. Nobody knows.”

“But why would they take my memories? Why would they leave me in the woods?”

“We don’t know,” Louis admits. “You must have been important, I guess.”

“Important to who?”

“Us,” Louis answers. “And I guess that made you important to them. I don’t know, Harry, I just don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Harry shrugs and pulls Louis’s hands into his lap. “It’s not your fault,” he murmurs.

“I know. I just…I should’ve told you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Louis shakes his head. “It’s not.”

“It’ll all be okay,” Harry insists, looking up at him.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I have you.”

Not daring to think, Louis leans forward and pushes his lips into Harry’s with so much force he’s sure they’ll bruise, but he doesn’t care. It’s impossible to care when he feels Harry’s lips part and press into his. When he can taste the sugary remains of sweets (from the Christmas tree maybe?) and the cold of snow. When his breath is Harry’s. When Harry’s hands are wrapping around his waist, pulling him onto his lap, and scratching shapes into his back. When his own hands glide up Harry’s face and into his hair, tangling his fingers in the chocolate curls.

Nothing else matters, not when he’s longed for this with every fiber of his being. Not when every nerve ending, every cell, every element and atom in his body, is on fire and breathing in Harry Harry Harry.

He doesn’t care about anything else, because he has Harry, finally like he’s wanted him. In ways he hardly dared to dream. He doesn’t care.

_Because I have you._

Everything is a blur of sweat and sticky skin and clothes being shed and wanting wanting wanting. Harry’s breath hot in his ear. Harry’s lips on his neck, his chest, his lips, his nose, his collarbone, his stomach, his thighs. Harry whispering his name. Chills running up his spine. Fire coursing through his veins. His heart pounding wildly against his ribcage. Harry whispering his favorite things about Louis like sweet secrets (“I like when your hair is messy, you know, soft. Natural” “I like when you say my name” “I like when you kiss me” “I like your lips” “I like your cute little bum” “I like your hands” “I like you”).

When it’s over and they’re too exhausted to do anything else, Louis lays naked (he’s going to be honest about the current state of affairs, seeing as how he just deflowered the boy) on top of him. His ear is pressed against the stupid butterfly tattoo on his chest and he can hear his heart beating rhythmically beneath the smooth muscle. One of Harry’s hands is tangled up in Louis’s and the other is curled protectingly around him, fingers brushing through the hair on the back of his neck. It all fits seamlessly, smoothly, flawlessly, and just as Louis is about to drift off into a peaceful (and much needed based on the fucking duffel bags under his eyes) sleep, Harry speaks. The sound rumbles through his chest, vibrating the side of Louis’s face. His voice is more hoarse and gravelly than usual.

“I have a question.”

Louis presses a feathery kiss to one of the swallows on his chest and puts his head back down. “What is it?”

“What’s the president’s name? You never said.”

“Oh I didn’t?”

“No, I don’t think so. I feel like I should know if I'm to be a proper Rebel."

Louis laughs before he closes his eyes happily. “Styles,” he answers sleepily. “President Styles.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything has gone to shit, as in most of the UK has been destroyed by the corrupt government and nobody can be trusted. Louis and Zayn are partners in crime armed with devilish good looks, quick wit, and actual weapons. Liam is a guarded badass with a soft spot for one particular boy. Niall is a box of giggles and dick drawings, and a surprising amount of knowledge. Harry is a particularly affectionate boy with no memory of a life before Louis found him in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay first things first: IM SORRY THIS IS SO LATE HOLY SHIT  
> im in college so its difficult to find the tme to write, which i know is a lame excuse, but its finally here so!!! i hope you all like it, and i promise chapter 6 wont take as long cause ive already started and have a few pages for it and im over my writers block so yay! let me know what you think!

The next afternoon is spent devising a plan of action. Now that their worst fears have been confirmed (as in the Conformists returning to finish whatever they’d started with Harry) they know they have to get more serious. The cabin was like a blissful vacation. Things are back to life or death now and have to be treated accordingly.

“We need to be heading to London,” Zayn says now, propping his feet up on one of the tables and pulling a cigarette out of his jacket. “We lost a lot of time in the cabin.”

“Are you fuckin’ kidding?” Niall splutters incredulously. “There’s pints here. And food. Can we really pass that up?”

“London is supposed to have everything we need though,” Liam points out mildly.

“Bet it doesn’t have fuckin’ pints…” Niall mutters.

Louis, perched regally on Harry’s lap like a king upon his throne, rolls his eyes. “For God’s sake, Niall.”

“Can we at least find somewhere with some thicker walls then?” Niall asks. “I’m tired of seeing and hearing everybody fucking each other.” He glares at each of them accusingly. “I just want some fuckin’ peace.” P

ink-faced, Harry frowns. “Hey! We just started last night don’t act—“

“Shut up,” Louis interrupts, clapping a hand over Harry’s big pretty mouth.

“We’re not fucking,” Liam murmurs, looking at Zayn with gooey eyes. “We just…”

He trails off uncertainly, leaving Zayn to pick up after him. “Like each other’s company.”

Liam nods, pleased with this answer, and turns back to Niall. “It’s not our fault you’re jealous, Niall.”

Niall guffaws. “Yeah, right, like I want a dick up me arse.”

“Good Lord,” Louis sighs, covering his burning face with his hands. He’s not really one to get embarrassed, (and to be fair he didn’t have a dick up his perfectly shaped bum last night) but even he has his moments. “Can we get back on topic? Please?”

“I’m sorry, Ni, but we need to leave,” Liam says, looking down to hide the blush creeping up his neck and coloring his cheeks.

Niall sniffs and crosses his arms. “Fine.”

Harry leans forward, hooking his chin on Louis’s shoulder. “We’ll find you some more pints,” he drips, breath tickling Louis’s ear. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Niall grins and punches Harry lightly in the shoulder. “Thanks, mate.”

Zayn puffs out a breath of smoke, shrouding his golden face in a film of white. “So it’s settled then. We’ll leave tomorrow morning.” He pauses before adding, “Who wants to go get some wood for the furnace? Liam and I did it yesterday.”

“We’re only here for one more night. Don’t you think we’ll be fine without it?” Louis asks.

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to freeze my ass off,” Zayn replies.

Louis leans back into Harry’s broad chest, ignoring the squirming of his insides when the boy wraps his long arms around Louis’s waist and delicately kisses the tender spot behind his ear. He hides the smile bursting forth behind a hand and raises an expectant eyebrow at Niall, hoping to get across the message (sort of an “I’d much rather be fooling around with my boy than gathering fucking firewood, so if you would do it, Blondie, that’d be great”).

But, of course, Niall either doesn’t get the hint or he just doesn’t give a shit. Probably the latter.

“No fuckin’ way am I going,” he says. “I’ve got pints to drink while I still can.”

Louis groans dramatically, throwing his head over Harry’s shoulder. “Come on, Niall! Please?” he whines.

Niall stands up and saunters over to the bar. “No fuckin’ way, mate.”

Louis shoots him a glare. “You’re the absolute worst person I’ve ever met. Do you know that?”

“Oi, you’re a terrible liar, Tommo.”

Zayn hums his agreement and takes another drag from his cigarette while Liam smiles cheekily.

“Well, I’m not going,” Louis announces, lifting his narrow chin into the air.

Harry frowns. “So I have to go by myself?”

“Looks like it.”

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry pouts.

Louis sighs heavily, blowing the fringe out of his face, before getting to his feet. “Of course you don’t have to go alone, love,” he murmurs, extending a hand to him.

Harry beams and takes Louis’s hand, and it’s impossible (you know, physically) when he looks at him not to smile back. Liam coos while Zayn smirks, cigarette dangling from his pretty lips. Niall makes a sound like the cracking of a whip and promptly erupts into a fit of cackles when Louis sticks up the middle finger of his free hand and tells him to fuck off.

When they enter the cold, harsh wind slams the door shut, sealing away Niall’s giddy laughter. Harry stuffs their connected hands into the pocket of his jacket. They stay close together, shoulders bumping, as they move away from the decrepit buildings and ruins and towards the line of the woods.

A chain link fence blocks off the remains of the city from the forest. At the bottom there’s a large gap where the fence has rusted and been peeled away.

Louis releases Harry’s hand and motions grandly, even bowing slightly. “Ladies first.”

Harry grins, dimples hollowing and shoves Louis playfully. “Cheeky bastard.”

Louis smiles and shoves his freezing hands into his pockets. “Go on then.”

He drops down onto all fours (Louis tries not to think anything dirty, he really does) and presses his narrow body into the snow covered ground. He wriggles forward, tiny bum wiggling and pointed boots digging into the earth until he’s lined up with the gap at the foot of the fence. Squirming around like a worm left on the hot sidewalk, he squeezes through the gap and pops up like a spring daisy on the other side.

“Your turn,” he announces merrily, dusting snow off of his clothes.

Louis sighs dramatically before getting on the ground and flattening himself out as much as possible, which is definitely easier said than done considering how compact he is. He army crawls forward, cursing under his breath as he barely scrapes by the rough metal of the fence that tugs at his hair and the thread of his thin jumper. He’s nearly free, about three fourths through, when he meets resistance and realizes that he’s stuck, large bum wedged firmly under the gap in the fence.

Drawing his eyebrows together, Louis puffs out an irritated sigh. “I’m stuck.”

Harry bites his cheeky grin and squats down in front of him. “Your pretty little bum is too big,” he chirps.

Louis scowls at him. “Shut the fuck up and help me.”

Harry pokes out his plump bottom lip (Louis wishes he were close enough to bite it). “That’s not very nice.”

“Harry,” Louis says through gritted teeth, “light of my life and apple of my eye, would you please, be a dear, and help me?”

Radiant smile glimmering on his pink lips, Harry crawls up to the fence and observes it carefully. He hums cheerfully under his breath, which should be annoying considering the bitter cold seeping through Louis’s clothes and the dull pain in his bum from the metal digging into the tender flesh, but it isn’t at all. It’s incredibly endearing and makes Louis feel warm and sugary, which is stupid and ridiculous, because he’s not a sap. He’s really not (except he is).

After what seems like a lifetime, Harry pulls his jacket off, revealing the inky tattoos carved into his milky skin. Louis watches silently as he wraps the black trench coat around his right hand until it builds a thick shield around his long fingers. Harry pecks Louis lightly on his flushed nose before shoving his coat-covered hand under the metal of the fence and pulling up fiercely (when Louis sees the way the muscles in his arms ripple and contract, he’s secretly thankful for the cold holding his crotch. He couldn’t get it up right now if he tried).

Finally, the fence creaks and whines and curls up and away from Louis’s bum. He breathes a sigh of relief, scrambles forward, and gets to his feet. Harry stands up next to him, smiling warmly. The gangly giant pulls his jacket off of his hand and drapes it over Louis, who, despite his best efforts not to, is trembling from the way his damp and frozen clothes cling to his skin.

“Thanks,” he murmurs shyly, drawing the coat tighter around him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t have to do a lot of things.”

“So why do you?” Louis asks softly. Harry’s the only person who can make him like this: quiet.

“Dunno,” Harry admits, grinning soppily. “It’s just you, innit?”

Pink tints Louis’s cheeks. “You’re an idiot.”

It’s supposed to be sassy and snarky and completely Louis Tomlinson, but it’s not. It’s sugary and breathless and airy, and completely not Louis Tomlinson. It’s whatever, or whoever, he is for Harry.

“Are you happy?” Harry asks, twiddling his fingers nervously. “You know, with me?”

Louis blinks. “Am I with you?”

Harry hesitates before answering. “If you want to be.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then you don’t,” Harry responds softly. “I’ll still be here. I’m yours. Totally.”

Louis can feel the skin around his eyes crinkling like sweets wrappers. “Are you now?”

Harry nods, curls bouncing. “I’ve been yours the whole time, you know. Ever since you found me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I saw you and…seriously, all I could think was, I hope he doesn’t kill me. But if he does I guess it’s okay, cause he’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, and if I’m going to die at least my first memory will be something beautiful.”

Louis swallows. His stomach is hot and bubbling and his head is warm and fuzzy. “You’re way more beautiful than I could ever be,” he whispers.

He hates being so transparent, but around Harry it's easy to forget that he keeps people an arm's length away. He doesn't let people in. He doesn't let them see the delicate parts of him that he's tucked away so neatly. But somehow, Harry has wiggled through the cracks and gaps of his carefully constructed fortress. He's in his head, in his bones, in his veins. He's everywhere all at once, and it's ridiculous and overwhelming, but also better than anything he's ever felt before.

It feels worth it to be different, to be this kind of vulnerable Louis Tomlinson, when he sees Harry beaming at him and gets lost in the golden sparkle of his candy apple eyes.

“Not a chance,” Harry breathes.

Gently, Harry curls one of his rough hands around Louis's sharp jaw, pulling his face up, and begins planting kisses like seeds across his golden skin. Louis can feel the flowers blooming in their wake, bursting into life, despite the bitter cold that's made a home in his bones.

Roses scatter his hairline. Lilies line up across his forehead. A carnation absorbs sunlight on his nose. Hydrangeas sprout from his temples. Lavender covers his jaw like scruff. Peonies blossom in the shadows under his eyes. Orchids peek shyly from the corners of his mouth. Their roots spread from his face down his arm and legs, through his fingertips and toes, anchoring him to the ground and, more importantly, to Harry.

Louis is a garden that can grow only for him. And he's okay with that, he really is. Because he feels beautiful again, like before the bombs were dropped, before everything was destroyed, and he's sprouting brightly through the ash and snow. He knows now what it feels like to be Harry—what it feels like to be nice, beautiful, shining, and perfect—when he finally kisses his lips. It's the sun being funneled into him and it feels like silk and tastes like cold. It fits like lock and key, and in that moment Louis is thoroughly convinced that this is what people were made for.

~~~

By the time Louis and Harry return to the bar, firewood in tow and cold clinging to their muscles and bones, Zayn and Liam have drifted off, cuddled into each other, weapons lying next to them, and Niall is passed out on the bar. His cheek presses into the granite, drool crusting the side of his face, and empty beer bottles are scattered around him. Louis rolls his eyes fondly at all of them before leading Harry into the tiny furnace room across from the loo. It’s stiflingly hot and reminds Louis of a creepy horror film, so the second they’ve tossed the wood in Louis darts out and heads into their little office with Harry trailing closely behind him.

He can already feel his clothes peeling away from his skin as warmth rushes back in as he toes off his shoes. He sits down cross-legged on the floor and pats his lap for Harry to join him, which he does immediately, laying his head in Louis’s lap and not even bothering to discard his dumb pointed boots.

Louis cards his fingers through his boy’s curls, reveling in the way his whole face melts like a caramel treat as he beams up at him. “You’re the prettiest giant I’ve ever seen. Did you know that?”

Harry giggles, covering his strawberry mouth with a massive hand. It’s true, what Louis said. He means it completely, whole-heartedly, even though he’s never been dumb enough (or maybe brave enough?) to say it out loud. Harry is the dewy spring morning, when everything is calm and still, just before the birds start to chirp. He’s the bright flowers bursting forth after waiting, waiting, waiting for the perfect time to come alive and be beautiful. He’s everything Louis never knew he needed (which is completely sappy, but God, is it ever true).

“You stole my line,” Harry says, blinking up at Louis through his thick lashes. Louis wants to kiss them, every single stupid eyelash, which is honestly the most ridiculous thing he’s ever thought.

“Did I?”

Harry nods and reaches up to run his fingers delicately down the fabric of Louis’s jumper. “You did. Said it earlier, told you you were the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Just a line, then, was it?” Louis murmurs, brushing his thumb across the satin of Harry’s bottom lip, because he can do that now. “I’m hurt, Harry, that you’d say something just to get me to sleep with you.”

Harry laughs (and an angel earns its wings). “I’d never use a line on you, Louis,” he responds. “You’re too special for that. Everything I say to you is for you.” He grabs Louis’s free hands and plants a light kiss on his knuckles. “Special just for you.”

Louis shakes his head, feeling entirely too endeared (and swooning over a fucking adult baby, of all people). “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it though, right?”

“Course.”

Harry pauses for a moment, snags his lip between his pearly teeth. “You know,” he says slowly, “you never answered my question.”

Louis blinks. “What question?”

“About you being happy,” Harry answers as he studies the hem of Louis’s jumper. “Are you happy, Louis?” L

ouis doesn’t answer right away, because it’s a valid question, one he’s never given any thought to. Is he happy? How can he honestly be happy, knowing that only a few weeks ago he killed a man? Knowing that only a few days ago, Harry killed two. Knowing that they’re never safe. Knowing that, try as he might, he can’t protect Harry from being tortured again. Knowing that he can’t protect anyone, not really. Knowing that not even two years ago, he lost everything. But looking down at the china doll boy watching him nervously, emerald eyes wide as saucers, and lips puckered together, he can’t help but feel that he’s found something (if not everything). So is he happy? He’s definitely better than he imagined he could ever be after what happened.

“Yes,” he answers finally. “I think I’m happy.”

Harry catches his lip between his thumb and middle finger. “With me? You’re happy with me?”

“Isn’t that the same question?”

“No.”

“But we’re not even, like…” Louis trails off, brows pinched together. “We’re not really together, Harry.”

Harry blinks. “But…last night…”

“We slept together, I know,” Louis agrees. “But, like…I don’t think we should put a label on it, you know?”

Hurt flashes across Harry’s starry eyes. “No.”

“Look, Harry,” Louis says, “we’re just…we’re Rebels. We’re not…we don’t have boyfriends or girlfriends or husbands or wives or whatever anymore, you know? There isn’t time for all of that. It’s too complicated. Everything is already complicated enough. So…so we’re not together. It just…it doesn’t even make sense to talk about it that way.”

“So you don’t want to be with me?”

_Of course I do._

“That’s not what I said.”

Harry sits up, pulling away from any and all physical contact. “But that’s what you meant.”

“No—“

“Why did you sleep with me?” Harry interrupts. “Why did you do it? If you didn’t want to be something.”

_I do want to be something. You don’t understand._

“Because I wanted to.”

“Because you wanted to,” Harry repeats thickly.

_No._

Louis frowns. “Why does it matter?”

Harry flinches if Louis actually struck him, and he knows he said something wrong. He struck a nerve, it’s written plainly on Harry’s porcelain face.

“It didn’t matter to you?”

_Of course it mattered._

“That’s not—“

Eyes glassy and wide, Harry shakes his head. “That’s not what you said, I know, but it’s what you meant, isn’t it? It didn’t matter to you. You’re just lonely. It doesn’t matter who it was with. It could’ve been anybody. It just happened to be me.” Harry’s voice breaks and slices through Louis’s veins. “That’s what you mean, innit?”

_No! There’s nobody else._

“No, that’s not…I’m glad it was you.”

“You’re glad,” Harry whispers, “but it doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”

_It’s so important. I just don’t know what I’m doing._

Louis licks his lips anxiously, reaches forward to grab Harry’s hand, and tries not to flinch when he rips it away like Louis is made of acid. “I just don’t think we need to make it into a huge deal, love. It was…it was good. It was perfect…I…you’re perfect. I’m glad…it does matter it was you. You’re blowing things out of proportion.”

Splotchy red creeps up Harry’s neck and colors his cherub cheeks. “It is a huge deal to me, Louis. Don’t you get that?”

_Can’t we just leave it this way?_

“But I don’t understand—“

“You don’t understand because clearly you’re more important to me than I am to you,” Harry breathes, voice like cold wax. “I wouldn’t have done it with anyone else. Never. No chance. I…you’re more important to me than…you don’t…” He runs his long finger through his silken hair in frustration. “You don’t get it. That’s the first time I’ve been with anybody, Louis, and it didn’t even matter to you. I’m just a warm body.”

A tear slides down Harry’s ruddy cheek and nestles in the spot where his dimple grows. Louis wants to wipe it away, but he knows Harry will only pull away again, and he’s not sure if he can take the rejection.

_You mean everything to me, Harry. Don’t you see that? You’re everything. Everything everything everything._

“Harry, that’s not it at all. You’re not just a body to me. You’re important, you are, I promise. And that’s not…I’m sure it’s not the first time you’ve been with anybody.”

Harry’s face hardens and Louis can feel the air being sucked out of him like a vacuum. “God, you just don’t get it!” He’s screaming. Harry doesn’t scream. He’s soft like rose petals and warm like toffee. He wasn’t made for screaming. “It doesn’t matter if I’ve been with forty other people, Louis, because the only one I’m ever going to remember is you! The only person I want to be with is you, and you can’t even say the same thing. You don’t want to be with me. You want things to be easy…and…and…not real. But that’s not how things are. The only person I’ll ever remember being with is you, Louis, because you’re the only one I’ve been with…and I don’t want to be with anybody else!”

_I don’t want to be with anybody else either._

Louis swallows. “I’m sorry.”

He knows it’s not the right thing to say, but it’s all he can get out. It’s like his brain has been turned off. All that’s up there is static.

“So am I.”

Louis looks down because he’s a coward who can’t bear to see the twist of pain on Harry’s angelic face. “If I had known how much it would mean to you, I wouldn’t have done it.”

Again, not the right thing to say. Nowhere near the right thing to say.

Harry smiles weakly and mumbles “means the world” before shuffling over to the far corner of the office with his back turned to Louis, facing the wall. Louis can see his shoulders shaking and knows he’s still crying, but it feels like he’s frozen to his spot on the floor. He wants to comfort him and hold him and just do something, just be a man for fucking once in his life, but he’s at a loss for words. What can he say to make it better? What can he do to make it better? He has no idea.

The thing is, Harry is important to Louis, ridiculously important, and last night had been ridiculously important to him too. But he’s not good with words. Or relationships. He never has been. He prefers not to deal with them at all. And he knows he shouldn’t have slept with Harry, obviously, because even as he was doing it he knew it’d be nothing more than a fond memory for him later. Louis would never leave Harry. Never. But he would never be with him either, not the way Harry apparently wants him to, because he just doesn’t know how to do that anymore. Everyone he loves is gone. Everyone he ever cared about, before the bombs were dropped, is gone. He doesn’t have the energy left to lose anyone else or give a piece of himself away.

_I’m sorry, Harry. It meant just as much to me as it did to you. But I can’t tell you that. Don’t you see? If I say it it becomes real. If it’s real, I’ll lose you. That’s how things works now. You just don’t understand._

But instead of going to Harry and saying all of the right things like he knows he should, Louis curls up in the floor like the bastard that he is and closes his eyes.

~~~

When Louis wakes up the next morning, his body feels stiff as a board and his skin is frosty. He blinks, confused, because he’s gotten used to waking up with the feel of curls tickling his ear and breath warm on the curve of his jaw, arms slung around him. But this morning, he’s alone.

Louis sits up and stares at the long lump on the floor, just far enough away for it to seem like miles, but close enough for it to seem like centimeters. Harry’s hair is mussed and framing his fallen snow face like a halo. His lips are pressed together in a satin bow. One of his arms is thrown over his smooth face and the other is lying, open palm, on his washboard stomach. Louis longs to crawl over to him and curl up around his sleeping frame, but he doesn’t. He knows he can’t do that after how badly he fucked up last night. If there’s one thing he’s certain about, it’s that he’s an incompetent idiot who needs advice from someone much wiser and (he will begrudgingly admit) much prettier.

He stands up and pads out of the office quietly. Zayn is sat against the wall, running his slender fingers through Liam’s short hair and holding a cigarette between his lips. Liam is lying on the floor, still sound asleep and using Zayn’s thigh as a pillow. Louis just assumes Niall is still passed out on the bar, because he’s found just the man he’s looking for.

Zayn raises one thick black eyebrow at Louis as he settles down on the hardwood floor beside him. “What’s up, mate?”

Louis sighs heavily. “I fucked up.”

Zayn snorts and blows out a cloud of smoke. “No shit.”

“Can you at least try to be sympathetic?” Louis mutters, crossing his arms.

“Tell me what you did first and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Harry wants to be, like, a thing,” Louis begins, keeping his voice low so as not to wake anyone. “You know, because we…you know…”

Golden eyes twinkling with amusement, Zayn smirks. “I don’t know.”

Louis glares at him. “I really would rather not go into detail.” Zayn shrugs and brings his cigarette back up to his lips, watching Louis expectantly. “Anyway, he wants to be a thing, because we…did that. He was going on and on about how important it was to him, how it meant the world, and how it didn’t mean shit to me, apparently, because I didn’t care that it was him. I just cared that it was somebody.”

“And did you tell him that’s not true?” Louis’s silence seems to be a sufficient response. Zayn reaches up and rubs his temple. “Jesus, Lou. Are you kidding? You just let him believe all of that was true?”

“I mean, I tried not to, but…”

“How do you manage to do that to the only person who is willing to put up with your bullshit?”

Louis looks down at his twiddling thumbs. “I don’t know. I have a talent for it, you know.”

Zayn shakes his head. “You care about him,” he says (and it’s not a question. It’s a statement. A fact). “So you just have to get over all of your weird little love nonsense and just tell him. You can’t just let him think you’re using him. That’s fucked up. Especially when he fucking looks at you like you hung the goddamn moon.”

Louis flushes. “No he doesn’t.”

“He does when you’re not looking,” Zayn murmurs. He pulls his cigarette thoughtfully. “You should tell him you want to be, like, boyfriends or whatever. That’s what he wants, innit?”

“I think so.”

“So tell him that.”

“How?”

“Just tell him. And don’t be an idiot about it.”

Louis frowns. “That’s hardly—“

“Look, Louis, it’s not as difficult as you’re making it seem. It’s not like him being your boyfriend actually means anything with the state the fucking world is in these days. He just wants to know he means something to you. So it might not be you calling him your boyfriend, it might just be as simple as not being an ass.”

“So just…tell him what I think.”

“Right.”

“That’s not—“

“I know it’s not easy,” Zayn says (Louis would be irritated with him for interrupting again, and always reading his mind, if he weren’t so goddamn gorgeous. And right). “But you can’t just be half-assed about it. That’s almost as bad as doing nothing.”

Louis closes his eyes and slumps back against the wall. “How come you and Liam never fight?”

“We’re honest.”

“I’m honest,” Louis protests.

Zayn snorts. “Louis, no you’re not. Does he even know about your fam—“

“That has nothing to do with anything,” Louis snaps, opening his eyes and fixing them pointedly on Zayn, who blinks calmly in return.

“I thought you were honest.” Louis presses his lips together in a tight line and looks away. “Look, Lou, you can’t expect him to understand anything if he doesn’t know why you act like you don’t care,” Zayn continues gently. “You know what happened isn’t your fault.”

“It was my fault, Zayn. Don’t try to make me feel better.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Zayn says softly. “I really believe that, and you need to believe it too, because it’s the truth. You couldn’t have done anything differently. You couldn’t have—“

“I could have been there,” Louis spits, pretending his voice doesn’t break halfway through.

Zayn is silent for a moment.

“You did everything you could, Louis. And you need to do that again now. You need to tell him the truth.”

Instead of responding, Louis gets to his feet and walks stiffly towards the office. He can feel Zayn watching him, can feel the worry etched into his Adonis face, but he doesn’t look back, because Zayn is right. He has to tell Harry the truth. Harry deserves to know the truth. Especially considering the heavy information Harry has trusted him with. It’s only fair. It’s only right.

He swallows down the nerves bubbling up in his throat before opening the door and stepping inside. Harry is awake now, sitting in the corner and absentmindedly tracing the tattoos along his arms with one of his spidery fingers. When the door creaks open, his head shoots up and a dark shadow passes over his gemstone eyes as he locks them with Louis’s. Even like this, angry and hurt and guarded, he’s so beautiful. More beautiful than anything Louis has ever seen, he’s sure.

“Hi,” Louis murmurs, nervously walking towards him.

Harry stares at him, swipes his tongue over his obscene lips. “Hi.”

“I…I was wondering if we could talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Louis sits down, keeping what he figures is a respectable distance between the two of them. “Well then maybe I could just talk and you could listen.”

Harry brings his thumb to his mouth and bites the nail. “I guess.”

Louis nods, mostly to himself, and decides he might as well just go for it. No beating around the bush, no bullshitting. Just honesty. He silently curses Zayn for being right (always) before he starts speaking in a pathetically trembling voice.

“Before I say anything else, I want to apologize. I didn’t mean to hurt you last night, and knowing that I did fucking sucks. I would never hurt you on purpose, and I’d like to think I’ll never hurt you on accident again.” He pauses to take a deep breath and eye Harry nervously. His face gives nothing away. “And I’m glad it was you, like I wouldn’t have wanted it to be anybody else. I still don’t want it to be anybody else. You’re the only one I…you mean a lot to me.”

Harry blinks slowly. “You mean that?”

“Of course,” Louis answers breathlessly.

“Tell me more.”

“Right, okay, yeah. So I…I guess I should, you know, explain why I always fuck up relationships.” Louis smiles weakly before continuing. “Before the war started and all that, I was living in Blackpool. The factories there were paying better wages than the ones in Doncaster, you know, at the time, so I went. I was the only man in the family, since my dad left when I was a baby and the guy my mum married left when I was a kid, so I was the only one who was allowed to work, under the president’s new laws, so I went there so I could make enough money to support my mum and all my sisters.”

“How many sisters do you have?”

Louis pushes away the image of all of them gathered around the table on Thanksgiving, smiling and laughing and passing around trays of food. “Four,” he answers quietly.

Harry gives a little nod. “I bet they’re beautiful.”

Louis smiles weakly, forcing the tears pricking his eyes to stay tucked away. “Yeah. They were.”

He can feel Harry’s eyes widening to dinner plates even though he doesn’t look. Just like he can feel the way his heart splinters and cracks despite all of the days he’s spent making sure it stays together. He’s spent so long not thinking about this at all, not once, but here he is, sitting on the floor of a fucking bar and telling the most beautiful boy he’s ever (or will ever, no doubt) known. It’s ridiculous and stupid, and he will not cry.

“Were?” Harry breathes.

“Yeah,” Louis murmurs (fuck the way his voice cracks. Fuck that). “I…I was in Blackpool, you know, when it happened. The bombs were dropped in Manchester before anyone was expecting and everything there was fucking obliterated, so I decided that the next day I was going to catch the tube back to Doncaster to get my sisters and my mum and get the hell out of there. I wasn’t sure where we were going to go, but I was going to get us out of there.” Louis pauses to take a deep, shaky breath. “But that night they hit Blackpool. I left as soon as I could, but I didn’t really know where I was going or how to get to Doncaster, since everything looked the same at the time—still does, actually—so I somehow ended up in Bradford, which is where I met Zayn.”

Harry looks down at his large hands. “Lou, you don’t have to tell me any of this. It’s hard for you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Louis tentatively reaches out to touch his hand. When Harry doesn’t pull away, Louis looks into his crisp green eyes. “I need to tell you. I care about you. You should know this about me.”

“Okay,” Harry whispers in reply.

“So Zayn and I found Doncaster, eventually,” Louis continues. “It took us a long time. I think a month? I don’t know. So we got to Doncaster and…and found my old house. Or it wasn’t really my house. It was just where my house was. The house was completely destroyed. There was fucking nothing left. I didn’t find my family in it, because I didn’t look. I was too scared. But I know they were there. There’s no way they could’ve made it out.” Louis snorts at how pathetic he is as hot tears start pouring thickly down his face. “I didn’t look, but I know they were there.”

In the silence that seems to stretch over a lifetime, Harry’s arms circle tightly around Louis’s torso. Louis melts into his soft, warm, skin and lets the salty tears soak the shoulder of his stupid white t-shirt with stupid dainty hands drawn on it. He doesn’t get mad at himself when he sees Lottie’s blue eyes blinking at him. Or Phoebe and Daisy skipping down the street, holding hands and laughing as their braids bounce up and down. Or Fizzy’s cheerful laugh ringing through the halls of their home. Or his mum stroking his hair and calling him Boobear, which he used to hate, but god would he give anything to hear that stupid fucking name again. He doesn’t get mad at himself anymore. He just focuses on the way Harry’s rough fingers trace over his skin and the little kisses he presses into Louis’s fringe. He doesn’t get mad at himself, because here he can remember everything and cry and look like a complete idiot, but he’s still safe.

With Harry, he’s safe. He’s okay.   
Finally.

It feels like forever that they just sit there, Louis slumped against his shoulder with no tears left to give, until Harry finally eases Louis out of his grip and looks at him tenderly.

“Are you okay?”

Louis shrugs. “Better than I have been in a long time.”

Harry grins and kisses the bruised skin under Louis’s eye before getting to his feet. “We need to get going,” he says. “Zayn and Liam are probably itching to go.”

Louis nods. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

~~~

As they walk down the barren streets, shoes crunching ash and rubble, Louis keeps close to Harry. It’s not like this is anything new, obviously, but it feels different this time. He has to have some kind of physical contact with him now, just to make sure Harry knows he’s there, and he’ll always be there. And maybe it’s reassurance for him too. What they have—this thing between the two of them—seems much more concrete now. It’s actually nice. There’s a sense of normalcy again.

“Can you do me a favor?” Harry asks, breath tickling Louis’s ear as he leans over to whisper to him.

Louis raises an eyebrow and glances over at him. “What’s up?”

“My hand says it misses yours, so could you help it not be so lonely?” Harry responds. His eyes are twinkling like stars and the dimple in his cheek is bursting forth.

“You’re an idiot.”

Harry smiles and holds his hand out. “I’m your idiot though, right?”

“Right,” Louis agrees quietly, lacing their fingers together.

They’ve been looking for the next place to stay since yesterday afternoon. They didn’t stop to rest during the night, because it’s just not worth the risk to sleep out in the open. If anything it’s stupid and you’re basically asking to be murdered in your sleep. And seeing as how they haven’t had the chance of stumbling upon some abandoned building or finding a ready-made shelter to rest in, they’ve been moving. And moving. And moving.

“Oi,” Niall says, coming to walk alongside Louis. “When are we going to get somewhere? I’m fuckin’ tired as shit and starving.”

“Dunno, mate,” Louis admits, stifling a yawn.

Harry squeezes Louis’s hand. “I think we’ll find somewhere soon. I have a good feeling about it.”

Niall snorts. “Yeah, well, I don’t.”

“Why not?” Harry asks.

“Because we’ve been walking for almost 24 fuckin’ hours and we haven’t found anything.”

Liam glances over his shoulder at them. “You’re just cranky because you’re hungry,” he points out. “We’ll find somewhere soon.”

“I hope so or I’ll drop dead.”

Zayn pulls out a cigarette and brings it to his velvet lips. “Let’s be more dramatic.”

Louis opens his mouth to add a snarky comment when suddenly he feels a sharp, indescribable pain cut through his back. He stutters out something unintelligible before falling to the ground, his sweaty palm slipping out of Harry’s grasp.

Everything after he hits the cold, stony ground is a blur.

The lads are in hysterics around him. Zayn and Liam are running off into the distance, firing their weapons and screaming curses, while Niall stands protectively in front of him, shooting and shouting like a drunken Irishman.

Louis can feel Harry’s strong arms wrapping around him and the rocking of his body, but everything else is underwater. He’s slipping under a wave, caught in a strong current, and the ground around him is painted red. It looks like rubies. Louis reaches out to grab a handful of the glimmering gemstones. He reaches up to show them to Harry, because if anyone should have something as beautiful as rubies it should be Harry.

A smile traces his lips as the gems stick to Harry’s porcelain cheek like a stripe of paint. “Beautiful,” he breathes.

But why is Harry crying? Water flows out of his emerald eyes like the waves crashing down over Louis. He’s so beautiful, and look what Louis offered him! Fucking rubies! So why is he crying? Why is he sad? Is Louis not enough for him?

“Stay with me,” Harry cries. A tear splashes down onto Louis’s upper lip. It tastes like salt. “Stay with me, Lou. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t go.”

_Leave? I would never leave you, Harry. I won’t go anywhere, love._

“Please,” Harry begs. “Please stay. Don’t leave me.”

_I just told you I wouldn’t._

“I can’t be without you. Don’t leave.”

Louis closes his eyes. _You’re being silly…_

“No! No, Lou, open your eyes! Please!”

_I’m sleepy. Just let me sleep. Let me take a nap._

“Louis, please!”

Why does he sound so far away? Louis can feel his sturdy arms holding up, cradling him against his broad chest, but god does he sound miles away. It’s so weird. So, so, so weird. But Louis stops thinking about it as the waves finally pull him under and everything goes black.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything has gone to shit, as in most of the UK has been destroyed by the corrupt government and nobody can be trusted. Louis and Zayn are partners in crime armed with devilish good looks, quick wit, and actual weapons. Liam is a guarded badass with a soft spot for one particular boy. Niall is a box of giggles and dick drawings, and a surprising amount of knowledge. Harry is a particularly affectionate boy with no memory of a life before Louis found him in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so, in this chapter youll see zayn calling liam "jaan" so i figured i should explain that! jaan means sweetheart and is a term of endearment in urdu, which is one of the main languages spoken in pakistan and zayn can speak in it, so i wanted to incorporate that. i hope yall like this chapter, let me know what you think!!

“He promised.” His voice sounds raw and scratchy like he’s been screaming or weeping. Maybe both.

_Who promised?_

“He promised he wouldn’t hurt you if I did what he said. He’s a—“

“What are you going on about?” Zayn interrupts.

Harry reaches down and slides his hand into Louis’s. “He promised,” Harry repeats, sounding slightly crazed. “He promised he wouldn’t hurt him.”

Louis knows Zayn is frowning even though he can’t see him. “Who promised?”

“My father.”

“Your father,” Zayn repeats flatly.

“Yes.”

_Harry, you don’t know who your father is._

“Your father promised he wouldn’t hurt Louis.”

“Yes,” Harry answers, clearly frustrated. “I saw him and I told him I’d do whatever he wanted if he didn’t hurt Louis.”

Zayn hesitates before asking, “What did he want you to do?”

“Tell him where we’re going,” Harry mumbles.

The tension in the air is palpable.

“You told someone where we’re going?”

“Of course not,” Harry retorts, offended. “I told him we were going to Brighton. I would never—“ Harry cuts himself off with a horrified gasp. “Oh my god. It’s my fault. I lied and he knows I lied. That’s why he did it. It’s my fault.”

“Harry,” Zayn says sternly. “It’s not your fault. Louis got shot by Conformists because we were out in the open, not because you lied to someone you thought was your father.”

Harry stiffens beside Louis. “I didn’t think he was my father. I know he was my father.”

_You can’t know that. You don’t who your father is._

“When Louis found you, you didn’t even know your own name,” Zayn points out slowly, carefully. “You can’t just suddenly know who your father is, mate.”

“I know it was him!” Harry shouts. “I know it was him, Zayn, I’m not crazy. My father is the reason Louis was hurt.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy. You’re just not making sene. You’re sleep deprived.”

“I know what happened. You don’t understand.” Harry sounds so sad. Louis wishes he could say something to him, or squeeze his hand. Or kiss him. Just something. But he can’t. He just lies there, eyes closed and mouth shut.

Zayn sighs. “Harry, mate, you’ve got to go to bed.”

The grip around Louis’s limp hand tightens. “No. I’m not leaving him,” Harry snaps.

“You haven’t slept for three days,” Zayn murmurs.

Silk trails over Louis’s cheekbone and sweet breath tickles the side of his face as Harry speaks. “I can’t leave him. What if he wakes up and I’m not here?”

“I promise you’ll be the first person I tell.” There’s a brief pause before Zayn continues. “He wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself. You need to sleep. You know he’d be upset if he woke up and saw you like this. You look awful, mate.”

_Go to sleep, love._

A calloused hand brushes the fringe away from Louis’s closed eyes. “Okay,” Harry concedes quietly as if he heard Louis’s silent plea. “Do you promise you’ll wake me?”

“I promise.”

Harry presses a warm kiss to the button of Louis’s nose before letting go of his hand. There’s the sound of rustling and shuffling and footsteps as Harry exits the room (is it a room? Where the hell are they?) and Zayn settles down in the seat next to Louis. He can feel Zayn’s gaze on him, but he doesn’t clutch his hand like a life preserver or adjust Louis’s fringe with the gentlest touch. It’s definitely not Harry sitting beside him anymore, but it’s nice to have quiet and steady Zayn by his side. It reminds him of before, when it was just the two of them, and it’s comforting.

“Hey,” a new voice (Liam) says suddenly. Louis can feel Zayn jump, startled. “Sorry, babe, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“’S okay.”

There’s a loud scraping sound as Liam pulls up his own chair. “How’s he doing?”

Zayn sighs, blowing air across Louis’s face, making his eyelashes flutter. “I don’t know,” he admits. “It’s been three days and he hasn’t done anything.”

_I’ve tried._

“You have to be patient,” Lim replies gently.

“What if he doesn’t wake up, jaan?” Agony colors Zayn’s voice. His throat sounds tight.

_I’ll wake up. I promise I’ll wake up. Don’t give up on me._

“He’ll wake up,” Liam says confidently.

_I’ll wake up._

“I hope so.”

_I’ll wake up._

~~~

“There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

Zayn’s voice sounds thick and distant like it’s traveling through pea soup rather than air. Louis fights through the thickness and bursts out of the waves to hear the conversation clearly (or he kind of does. He can hear now, but his eyes are still sealed shut and his body is still heavy).

“What is it?” Liam asks. His voice is softer than normal, sweet and smooth like honey, like it has been every time it’s just Zayn and Liam by Louis’s side (the only perk of being in a coma is hearing secrets).

“I saw the Conformist before he shot Louis,” Zayn responds quietly. “He shot too quickly for me to warn anyone, but I saw him. He had a clear shot at Harry, but he chose Louis instead.”

_Why would they do that?_

“Why would they do that?” Liam asks, voicing Louis’s thoughts aloud.

There’s the sound of rustling and a lighter clicking. The smell of cigarette smoke breezes by Louis’s nostrils.

“I don’t know,” Zayn admits, “but I can’t help but think it has something to do with what Harry said yesterday.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Liam says, “and the idea of it makes sense, doesn’t it? Everywhere we’ve been has had enough food and water for as long as we stay, which is weird, and Conformists have found us every time we’re leaving, which is weirder, and this has only been since Louis found Harry, which is weirdest. It’d make sense, in theory, if Harry’s dad was a Conformist following us around or summat, and it’d explain why Harry wasn’t hurt.” Liam pauses to sigh. “But it isn’t rational, love. Harry doesn’t know anything and he hadn’t slept for days. His mind probably just made it up to make sense of everything.”

Smoke floats across Louis’s still face after Zayn takes a long, thoughtful drag. “Yeah I guess, but why would they choose to shoot Louis?”

_Because they’re rat bastards with no thoughts or feelings._

“Conformists don’t make sense, babe,” Liam murmurs. There’s a heartbeat of silence before he adds, “Please don’t blame yourself. You did everything you could and Louis is still alive. You’re really brave, Zayn.”

Zayn snorts. “You’re about a hundred times braver than me, jaan.”

“Not true,” Liam protests. “Also, you’re much cuter.”

_Oh for the love of god._

“Definitely not.”

Liam’s heavy boots drag across the floor. Lips smack together warmly.

_Jesus Christ._

“Everything is gonna be okay, jaan,” Liam promises quietly.

Zayn giggles (Louis has definitely never heard that before). “Jaan is my thing, you absolute nerd.”

“I thought it was our thing.”

“Stop pouting.”

“Make me.”

_Get away from me._

Lips smack again.

_You two are revolting._

“I love you.” Zayn’s voice sounds muffled as if his lips are still pressed against Liam’s (gross).

“I love you too.”

_Please don’t make out in front of me. I’d rather be shot again._

“Oi! Stop that shit!”

Somebody’s knee bangs against Louis, jostling his concrete body. Normally, he would complain, but the wet sound of kissing has stopped and he couldn’t be more grateful.

_Niall, my golden Irish savior._

“If you’e going to suck each other’s dicks—“

“We weren’t even doing that!” Liam protests.

“—go do it somewhere else, ya arseholes,” Niall finishes. “I’ll sit with him.”

Chairs and feet slide and scrape across the floor as Liam and Zayn rise to leave and Niall takes one of their seats. Once the sound of Liam’s boots fades away, Niall shifts in his seat and leans on the edge of whatever (a table, maybe?) Louis is laid out on.

“I don’t know if you can hear me and I feel kind of dumb talking to you, but I’m gonna do it anyway,” Niall says. “We really miss you. It’s not the same without you. Plus it’s a pain in the arse to shove food and water down your throat.”

Louis wishes he could laugh.

_Shut up, you knob._

“Also,” Niall continues, “Harry is fuckin’ awful. He’s either crying and rambling or sleeping for twenty hours and having nightmares. It’s fuckin’ exhausting.”

_Just hold him and he’ll be okay. He just gets scared. Please take care of him._

“So if you could wake up, that’d be great. You’re the only one who knows what to do with him. He’s like an adult baby.”

_I’ll wake up. I promise. I’ll wake up for Harry._

~~~

When Louis finally does wake up, the first thing he sees is Niall sprawled out on the hardwood floor like a starfish. His blonde hair is sticking out at odd angles and his mouth is hung open with drool oozing out the side (if there’s one thing Niall is, it’s an elegant sleeper).

The next thing Louis sees is the room he’s in. It’s cozy and full of warm colors. A fire is crackling dimly in the hearth beside Niall and there’s a dusty old bookshelf with a collapsed shelf and a pile of musty books. The air is permeated with the scent of coffee, and usually where there’s coffee there’s tea, so this day is already off to a good start (waking up from a coma and tea. Does it really get better than that?).

Louis sits up and is startled to find just how dizzy he feels (which he probably should have anticipated, considering that he’s been comatose for god knows how long). Fighting through the black dots clouding his vision, Louis rises from the sofa that now boasts a mold of his ass and stumbles out of the little library.

The next room he finds himself in is a coffee shop, or what used to be a coffee shop. Rickety wooden chairs and tables line the peeling walls and a lone stool sits by the bar. Along the smallest wall is a massive bay window shielded by thick (and hideous) burgundy curtains. Underneath the window I a leather booth stacked with faded, overstuffed pillows, and three boys sleeping peacefully. Zayn is curled up against Liam, wrapped in the stronger boy’s arms like a present, while Harry is stretched out across from them, his long body taking up the entire booth.

Louis smiles fondly before returning his attention to the mission at hand: tea, and lots of it.

Just as he’s rummaging through a drawer, clinging onto the counter for dear life (what they fail to tell you about moving about right after waking up from a coma is that it’s probably a horrible idea), there’s a booming thud. Louis looks up to find the source of the noise to see Niall lying on the floor, breathing heavily and looking at Liam, Zayn, and Harry (who are now awake) with wild eyes.

“I fell asleep and when I woke up he was gone!” Niall shouts breathlessly. “He’s probably lying dead in a ditch somewhere and it’s all my fault!”

Obviously, they haven’t seen him yet. Louis should probably say something but he’s a bit of an asshole and he finds the situation to be amusing.

“He’s gone?” Harry echoes, face completely devoid of all color.

“Gone,” Niall confirms gravely from his position on the floor.

Zayn’s golden eyes are heavy with sleep and there’s a frown on his face. “Mate, calm down.”

“Calm down?” Niall echoes incredulously. “How can I calm down? Louis is dead.”

“I’m gonna be sick,” Harry breathes just as Liam murmurs, “I really doubt that, Niall.”

Niall sits up and pulls the pistol out of his jacket. He slides it across the floor and says dramatically, “Shoot me. Shoot me with me own gun. I deserve it.”

Zayn snorts. “Jesus Christ.”

“Niall, that’s a bit much, don’t you think?” Liam asks.

“Harry, you should probably do it,” Niall decides, resolutely ignoring them. “He was the most dear to you.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “As fun as this has been to watch, I’m going to have to step in now,” he says. “Nobody is going to be shooting you today, Blondie.”

Niall looks at him and instantly bursts into tears, which was honestly the last thing Louis was expecting to happen. As he scrambles across the floor to clutch Louis’s ankles, he looks like a small child. His cheeks are ruddy and snot is dripping from his nose (lovely).

“Oh my god,” Niall sobs, wiping his nose aggressively in the crook of his elbow. “I thought I fuckin’ killed you, Tommo.”

“Mate, I’m fine.”

“Oh my god.”

“Come on then, Blondie. Everything’s okay. Get off me.”

“I’m sorry, Louis. I’m a right piece of shit. Nearly killed you,” Niall sputters, tugging harder at Louis’s ankles. Louis jerks forward and sees stars. His palms grow slick with sweat and his skull-crushing grip on the counter loosens.

“Oi, let go,” Louis chokes weakly. He can feel himself balancing precariously on the line between conscious and unconscious. “Gonna pass out.”

At these words, Harry stumbles off out of the booth and over to Louis. He nudges a bleary-eyed Niall away with the toe of his pointed boot before pressing a kiss to Louis’s sweaty temple and wrapping a sturdy arm around his waist.

“You need to be resting, love,” Harry says, gently guiding Louis back towards the little makeshift library.

“I’ve been resting.”

“And you need to keep resting,” Harry tells him. “You were shot, you can’t just run around.”

Louis frowns as Harry sits him down on the couch. “I just wanted to make tea.”

Harry beams down at him. “I’ll make you tea, Lou!” He pauses to run a hand through Louis’s sweat-damp hair. “I’ve been practicing.”

Leaning back into the couch, Louis smiles serenely. “Have you now?”

Harry nods, curls bouncing against his shoulders. “Mhmm. Liam says I’m quite good now.”

Louis snorts. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He taps his foot lightly against Harry’s shin. “Go get me some then, slave.”

“Yes, master,” Harry hums, leaning over in a deep bow. His voice is gravely and his eyes are a shade darker and Louis can already feel the stirring in his gut (he’s been unconscious for entirely too long). “I live to serve you.”

As he stands back up, he gives Louis a wink and flashes his pearly whites before prancing out of the room (of course he prances, of course. How can one human be so goddamn endearing?)/ Louis has never been happier, or more grateful, in this fucking dystopia they’re living in to be alive.

~~~

Two more days have passed and Louis is basically losing his mind. Nobody is letting him leave the stupid fucking couch (save for going to the toilet) and he’s got quite the case of cabin fever. Normally, he would relish in the lads waiting on him hand and foot (even Niall is, although it’s probably just because he’s guilt ridden), but it’s driving him mad. It’s not that he’s typically very active or helpful if he can help it, but he hates being told what he can and cannot do. Louis Tomlinson doesn’t get bossed around. Louis Tomlinson is the boss, thank you.

Just as Louis is going to haul his ass off of the couch and fix himself a cuppa out of pure defiance, Harry enters the room, whistling merrily. When he sees Louis halfway standing, he stops whistling and sets his candy floss lips into a frown.

“What do you think you’re doing, pal?” Harry demands, putting a hand on his narrow hip.

Louis settles back into the couch and shrugs. “Nothing. Just stretching.”

“Louis,” Harry says sternly, “don’t lie to me.”

Louis groans dramatically. “I was just going to fix myself a cuppa, alright?”

“You need to be—“

“I need to be resting, I know,” Louis snaps.

Harry flinches and his shoulders droop. He looks like a puppy that’s just been scolded. “I could fix you some,” he murmurs, looking down at his pigeon-toed feet.

“No,” Louis says quietly, reaching out to grab Harry’s wrist and tug him closer. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I don’t want any tea.”

Harry blinks up at him nervously. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Louis pats the spot on the sofa next to him. “Sit with me? Please.”

Harry plops down happily on the couch and rests his head on Louis's shoulder, curls brushing lightly against the stubble on his sharp jawline. He slides one hand under Louis's jumper. "Have you ever loved anybody?" Harry whispers, slowly walking his fingers up Louis's stomach.

Goose-pimples bloom along Louis's belly. "No."

Harry's fingers still and he lifts his head from Louis's shoulder to glance at him under long lashes and heavy lids. "Never? Not even your mum?"

Louis bites the inside of his cheek. "I change my answer then...if we're including mums and family," he says weakly.

"What does it feel like?" Harry asks. He presses his silky hair back into the crook of Louis's next, starting back up with his hands and pressing the tips of his long fingers down along Louis's soft skin. "I don't remember loving anybody."

"Safe," Louis murmurs, rapidly blinking away the image of his mum's bright round eyes and shutting out the sounds of his sisters' squeals. Even after everything he's been through and after telling about what happened, it's too much, way too much, but he's going to carry on, because Harry wants to know. Maybe he needs to know. Louis would need to know if he couldn't remember love.

"Safe." The world floats out of Harry's satin lips in an awed breath.

"And warm," Louis continues. "You know, like warm inside, not really outside. Kind of like when you drink tea after a long day in the winter, innit? It's nice, soothing."

Harry traces a circle over Louis's pounding heart. "You love tea."

The tiniest of smiles turns up the corners of Louis's thin lips. "Yeah." He reaches up to play with the curls at the nape of Harry's neck. "And...and it's like you're home--all the time--you know, when you're with them. Because home is supposed to be somewhere you love. And somewhere you feel...somewhere you feel safe."

"Are you sad, Louis?" he questions, clearly able to hear the break in Louis's voice.

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes I am too." Harry hesitates for a moment before adding, "I feel safe with you."

It's so quiet Louis isn't sure he's said it. But he can feel Harry's heart speeding up and he can feel the nerves radiating off of him as he waits for Louis to say something, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he said it. And could it mean what he thinks it might? No. He doesn't even let himself entertain the idea, because it's just stupid (it is stupid, right? Harry's always saying things like that. It doesn't mean anything. It never really does. They're just words, right? Right).

"I love you."

Or maybe not.

Louis pulls away, heart hammering wildly in his chest. "Don't say that," he whispers.

Harry sits up. His sparkling eyes are edged with hurt. "Why not?"

"I'm all you know." Louis swallows. "You don't love me...you don't know anything other than me."

The wheels in Harry's mind turn visibly before he finally speaks.

"It wouldn't matter if I knew everything. Even if I'd loved a hundred people before, there's no way I loved them anything like I love you." Louis opens his mouth to speak, but Harry plows on breathlessly, "I know I love you because you're the voice I hear in my dreams. And my favorite colors are blue like your eyes, and...and gold like your skin, pink like your lips..." He brushes a finger softly against Louis's bottom lip. "When anyone tries to hurt you...I don't want to be nice anymore."

_I don't want to be nice anymore._

"Harry--"

Harry shakes his head. "I don't know who I am, not really, or what it means to be a Rebel, or...anything really. Not anymore. But I know I can't sleep without you next to me and I can't smile if you're not there and I can't laugh if you're not the one who made me do it. Almost losing you was worse than...anything. I would've rather died than watched you die. I'm so grateful you're alive. I don't care if I ever remember anything again as long as I never forget you. I don't want to remember a life without you, Louis, because...because that's not living."

It takes Louis a lifetime to regain his ability to form words. "You don't...you can't," he splutters, searching Harry's face for some kind of humor (because this has to be a joke, right?). "You feel safe with me because I protect you. We all protect each other. It's not--"

"It's different with you."

The words hit Louis like a brick wall. Sure, he's heard them before. He's heard them from just about everyone, actually, but this time it's different. There's a greater weight to them than ever before.

_It's different with you._

Because it's different with Harry too. It has been since the fucking day he found him hiding in the woods. Louis has known the entire time, what with all of the butterflies in his stomach and the heat constantly prickling his skin and the smile always hiding right behind his lips (and the safety...and warmth...and sense of home). Sure, he's been fooling around with him. He's been open about their relationship or whatever it is they have. But this is different. This is love. And now all of his thoughts and feelings and fears are being vocalized by Harry. And it's a lot to take in. And Louis can't let himself love Harry, not like this, because everyone he has ever loved is gone. Because Louis couldn't save them, he couldn't protect them. And the thought of losing Harry makes him want to double over and vomit right there in the floor, which isn't beautiful or snarky or anything like Louis Tomlinson.

"It's not," Louis lies.

Harry puts a hand lightly on Louis's thigh (fuck the lightning that strikes him, curling his toes. Fuck that). "Are you like this with anyone else?"

Louis looks down at his hands tucked neatly in his lap. "That's not--"

"You're not," Harry presses. "I know you're not, Lou. You're mine and I'm yours, remember? And...and I know you love me too. Even if you don't say it. Even if you never say it, that's okay--I mean it's not, it'll break my heart obviously, and all that--but...but if you don't say it, it's okay. Because I love you."

"I can't..."

"You're my home, Louis," Harry whispers.

His gravelly voice shatters into a hundred pieces and one of them slices Louis's heart right open and blood and love and everything good and bad in the entire fucking universe spills out onto the stupid couch he's been sat on for a week, and Louis has no choice but to look up. Shimmering tears are pulling his eyelashes together in damp clumps. His bottom lip is tucked between his teeth and his grip on Louis's thigh is so careful and soft. All Louis can think is that he's too pretty for this bullshit Rebel life. He's too pretty for this world.

"I've lost everyone, Harry," Louis tells him quietly. "I don't have anyone I love left. I mean, I love Zayn and Niall and Liam, but...but you know, it's different. I don't...it's not the way you love your family or..." _The way I love you_ he finishes silently. "And I can't lose you."

"You won't." Harry's voice is desperate, pleading. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

"You can't promise that, Harry!" Louis is shouting and he doesn't know why and he feels hot tears glazing over his eyes. "You can't just promise something like that!"

Harry's eyes flash and he cups Louis's face in his hands, his grip white hot. "I don't know what you want me to say. I don't know what I'm allowed to promise you. But I won't leave. Something might happen to me, but I won't leave you, Louis. Ever. I couldn't."

Louis swallows the lump in his throat. "Don't do this to me."

"You've known how I felt the whole time," Harry breathes. He leans forward and presses a small kiss to the tear sliding down Louis's cheek. "I'm just saying it out loud now. Nothing is different. Nothing changes."

"But--"

"It doesn't matter how long you hold it in, Lou. It's there. You're mine. I'm yours. Forever."

Louis reaches up and runs his finger along the bag, slick with tears, under Harry's eye. "I know."

He's not sure if the words even leave his mouth, because honestly it would be a miracle if he even knows how to speak at this point. Everything that he's kept so tightly packed inside of him for a year and half has been coming undone since the moment he found Harry. And now he's completely unraveled, and he can't get it all wrapped back up fast enough.

"Are you okay?"

Louis sucks in his bottom lip and nods. "I'm fine."

"Hey, Lou?"

"Hmm?"

"Can I kiss you?"

Louis doesn't even let himself think. He just nods and closes his eyes. Harry presses his lips against his firmly, reassuringly. There's fire or the sun or something equally hot and blinding behind his lips. Louis reaches up and curls his hand around Harry's neck, and pulls him impossibly closer, because he needs more. He slides his free hand down Harry's bare chest, over the tattoos and scars that lie beneath them, just under the surface, and into the band of Harry's pants. He's wanted the entire time, every minute, every second. But this time he thinks he needs it.

"Louis," Harry murmurs against his mouth. "Stop."

Stomach sinking like a stone in the river, Louis pulls away and drops his hands limply to his sides. "Oh. I just...I thought."

"No, I...I want to," Harry says. His voice is full of aching, longing, like it always is when they get this close. "But you're only doing this to...it's not..."

"It's for the right reasons, Harry."

But as soon as he says it he knows it's not true. He's doing this because he doesn't want to be alone anymore. He wants to be close to Harry without actually letting himself be Harry's. He wants to take everything Harry is willing to give him (which is literally everything, he knows that for certain now) and give him nothing back. Louis just wants to feel loved and protect himself. Which is completely fucked up in every way possible. It's desperate and sad and wrong. It's not how it's supposed to be when you love someone.

Harry shakes his head. "I don't want you to have any regrets. And you're still hurt. I don't want to hurt you anymore."

"I know," Louis says quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Harry wraps his ridiculously long arms around Louis's waist, and holds him against his chest. Louis's heart sings from being held by him (there's no hope for him now. Definitely not). Even if he doesn't say it--even if he never says it--he is completely, totally, hopelessly in love with Harry Edward.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything has gone to shit, as in most of the UK has been destroyed by the corrupt government and nobody can be trusted. Louis and Zayn are partners in crime armed with devilish good looks, quick wit, and actual weapons. Liam is a guarded badass with a soft spot for one particular boy. Niall is a box of giggles and dick drawings, and a surprising amount of knowledge. Harry is a particularly affectionate boy with no memory of a life before Louis found him in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so ive never done smut before so i tried my hand at some hella mild smut so hopefully its not too awful and awkward lmao. i hope you guys like this chapter, be sure to let me know and tell your friends what you think! love you guys!!

After another two days, the lads finally decide (and Louis’s constant stream of complaints probably gave them the push they needed) Louis is well enough to move and they’re ready to leave the coffee shop. However, Harry is still strongly opposed (“He’s not well enough!” “He needs more time.” “What if his wound opens up again?” “What if he’s shot again?”), which is why Louis is currently being pushed down the cracked road on a rolling chair they’d found in a storage room. It was a compromise, because there was no other way to get Harry to leave.

When the mop-headed boy rolled the chair proudly into the shop, there had been, as usual, a mix of reactions. Liam had looked sufficiently confused, but he gave Harry an encouraging smile nonetheless. Zayn had given Harry a look that was reserved solely for him at this point, a “what are you doing and why do I have to deal with it what the hell is going on” sort of thing. Niall, who had been shoving old biscuits into his mouth, laughed and sprayed crumbs and spit everywhere. Louis had been uncertain, because it was definitely going to slow them down, but his love for Harry (and laziness) won out and he sat his happy ass down.

Originally, Harry and Louis had ben in the center of the group, but too often Harry lost control of Louis’s throne and rammed the front wheels into Niall’s ankles. After the sixth or seventh time, Niall shouted, “Oi, you fuckin’ cunt just take the front, would you?”

So now Louis is in the lead without actually having to do any work (just the way he likes it).

“How are you feeling, babe?” Harry asks, reaching out to gently squeeze Louis’s bicep.

“I’m fi—“

He’s cut off as one of the wheels of the chair gets caught in a divot in the road and he’s sent forward, spilling out of the chair and onto the street.

“Are you trying to kill me, Harold?” he groans, rubbing at the sore bullet wound in his back. The fresh scab split in his fall and he can feel a little bit of blood coloring his fingertips.

Harry trips over the leg of the chair and stumbles on his gangly legs over to Louis’s spot on the ground. “Oh god I’m so sorry, Lou. Are you alright?”

Louis wipes his hand off on his pants. “I’m fine. Help me up, would you?”

Harry’s eyes widen to comical saucers. “You’re bleeding!”

“Probably because you threw him on the ground,” Niall points out as he picks food out of his teeth. “At least it’s you who’s killed him and not me.”

“Shut up!” Harry wails miserably.

“Nobody’s killed me yet.” Louis fixes Niall with a sharp glare. “Apologize to him.”

Niall snorts. “Are you serious?”

“We’re going to have to find somewhere to stay right now so you can heal,” Harry decides as he nibbles anxiously on his thumb nail.

“No we’re not,” Louis tells him gently before turning his attention back to Niall. “I’m serious, Niall. You’ve upset him. Now apologize.”

Niall lets out a bark of laughter. “He’s a grown man!”

“You told him he’s killed me!”

Harry lets out a broken sob and buries his face in Louis’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lou. I’m sorry I hurt you. I love you.”

“Can we get going?” Zayn asks impatiently, smoke curling up and around his stubbled face.

“Not until Niall apologizes,” Louis announces defiantly.

“Oi, are you fuckin’ kidding?”

“Are you fucking kidding?” Louis shoots back as he begins rubbing soothing circles on Harry’s back.

Zayn drops the butt of his cigarette on the ground and stomps it out with the heel of his shoe. “Just do it!”

Niall blinks, startled (when Zayn speaks he mumbles. Louis honestly didn’t think he was capable of yelling), before dropping down into a crouch in front of Harry. “Look, I’m sorry, mate. I was just kidding. You didn’t kill him, alright? He’s fine.”

Harry sniffles into Louis’s shoulder. “It’s my fault he got shot in the first place.”

Niall frowns as Zayn and Liam exchange a nervous glance. “What the hell are you talking about?”

_He promised he wouldn’t hurt him._

_Who promised?_

_My father._

“Alright, let’s keep moving then!” Liam shouts suddenly. “Niall apologized, all’s well, let’s go.”

“But—“

“Come on then, lads!”

Liam steps forward, scoops Louis up into his arms as if he weighed no more than a tea kettle, and trudges past the abandoned rolling chair. Louis would complain about being carried around like a child, but right now he’s too busy thinking. He knows Liam stopped Harry from answering to prevent Louis from being worried, but he doesn’t that Louis’s heard it all before. Harry still believes Louis was shot because he lied to his father, even after he’s recovered and is once again in the right state of mind. What if Harry’s not lying? What if he’s right and really did see his father? So who is father, and why does he so badly want to know where they’re going?

~~~

By the time night falls and stars are speckling the sky like a paint-splattered canvas, Louis’s eyes are heavy and his back is sore and dull with pain. He’s riding along on Harry’s back now, since his boy has calmed down and Liam got tired of carrying him. They (and by “they” he means Harry) still won’t let Louis walk on his own, but he’s not exactly complaining when he can feel the hard muscles of Harry’s back rippling against his chest.

They’ve been walking for ages in silence (even Niall has kept his mouth shut, which is honestly incredible). Louis is dying to ask Harry about his father, but he’s forcing himself to bite his tongue, although he’s always struggled with it (it helps that he’s on the verge of passing out as he clings to Harry’s back). He can’t stop all of the questions flitting through his head though.

_Who’s your father?_

_How do you remember now?_

_Why did he shoot me?_

_Why didn’t he just kill all of us? He had the shot._

_Why does he want to know where we’re going?_

_What else do you remember?_

But Louis is determined to keep all these questions bottled up. He doesn’t want to get Harry upset again. His curly-haired angel is too fragile for an interrogation, so unless Harry brings it up, Louis won’t ask. He’s not actually sure how to keep mouth shut, but you learn something new everyday, he supposes.

Louis sighs and rests his head on Harry’s shoulder. “I’m so tired,” he murmurs.

Harry ghosts his fingers across Louis’s dangling ankle. “We’ll find somewhere soon, sweetcheeks.”

“Sweetcheeks?” Louis echoes sleepily. “That’s a new one.”

Harry grins and squeezes his grip on Louis’s thighs. “Mhmm. Do you like it?”

Louis snorts and twirls one of Harry’s chocolate curls around his finger. “Love it, sweetcheeks.”

“Good. Now, as I was saying, I’ll find you somewhere where you can live like a king.”

“Somewhere with a real bed?”

“Well of course,” Harry responds. “A king only sleeps on real beds, don’t you know?”

“True, innit?” Louis hums.

Harry smiles sweetly. “You’re my king.”

Louis leans forward and presses a kiss to Harry’s temple. “You’re a sap.”

“Maybe,” Harry says, shrugging slightly so as not to shake Louis off. “It’s okay though, right?”

“It’s more than okay.”

“Good.” Harry tilts his head back closer to Louis. “Now kiss me again, please, your majesty.”

Louis laughs (the one that crinkles his eyes) and obediently pecks Harry’s temple again. “So if I’m your king,” he says thoughtfully, hooking his chin over Harry’s shoulder, "are you my queen?”

“I suppose I am, yeah.”

Louis grins and twists one of Harry’s nipples, relishing in the little yelp it produces. “Alright then, my queen. Let’s find my palace before I fall asleep.”

“Yes, your majesty!”

~~~

The place that Harry finds for them is quite literally (by Rebel standards) a palace.

“Fuck,” Niall breathes as Liam gasps, “This is incredible!”

Louis can’t help but agree. From his perch on Harry’s back, he stares at the massive structure before them in awe. The white marble mansion glows a rosy pink in the early morning light. Wild red rose bushes bloom brightly along the house’s edge and ivy trail over the wide steps and laces around the massive columns looming before them.

As Harry marches them up the stairs, Louis stares up at the ceiling of the porch to find a monstrous chandelier. The crystals dangling down glint in the sunlight and make little lights dance around like stars.

“How the hell did you find this?” Louis asks, watching the chandelier twist lazily in the breeze.

“Just got lucky, I guess.”

Harry wraps his fingers around the doorknob and pushes the massive wrought-iron door open. The inside is just as spectacular as the outside (not that Louis expected anything less). An identical chandelier hands in the entryway. The glass of the shattered bulbs litters the marble floor and dust bunnies are scattered across the heavy, winding staircase and hide in the dark corners of the room, but other than that everything is pristine and eerily elegant.

Harry squeezes Louis’s thigh. “Let’s see if there’s a real bed somewhere in here.”

“Up the stairs then, my faithful steed.”

“I thought I was your queen?”

“You can be both,” Louis answers as Harry begins ascending the staircase, his long legs taking them two at a time. “Don’t be pouty.”

“I’m not pouting,” Harry protests. “I just want to make sure steeds can still sleep in the bed with you.”

Louis covers his giggle (if anyone asks, it wasn’t a giggle, it was a very manly laugh. Maybe a guffaw) with his hand. “Normally they can’t, but I’ll allow it this time.”

They reach the top of the staircase and are welcomed into a wide hallway. The walls are painted a cool gray and bright light filters through a thin curtain covering a monstrous arching window at the end of the hall.

“This place is fucking huge,” Louis remarks.

Harry nods distractedly and opens the first door they reach. It creaks and moans in protest before opening up into an airy room. The walls are the same cool gray as the hall, but instead of the cold white marble the floors are a warm hardwood. In the center of the room, under a set of three windows, is a four-poster bed adorned with faded amethyst curtains and an intricately patterned silk sheet.

Harry tucks the curtain behind one of the posts and gently drops Louis onto the bed. Dust poofs out of the mattress when his bum hits it, but Louis doesn’t even care. He’s sat on a bed, a _real_ bed, for the first time in nearly two years. Nothing can bother him right now.

Louis kicks off his shoes and slides his tired body under the silk sheet. It feels like water flowing over his skin. Harry crawls into the bed beside him and snakes his long arms around Louis’s waist. Louis is convinced this is what heaven feels like.

“Are you happy?” Harry murmurs, lips tickling Louis’s ear.

“Very.”

Harry tucks his face into Louis’s neck. Louis can feel the grin spreading across his boy’s face. “Good. Now get some rest.”

“You get some rest too,” Louis commands as he closes his eyes. He can already feel himself slipping into sleep’s comforting arms.

“I will, babe.” Harry sighs softly against Louis’s neck. “I love you.”

_I love you, too._

~~~

Louis is having probably the best dream he’s had in all of his twenty-two years on this god forsaken earth. Yes, it’s naughty. Yes, it involves strawberry lips wrapped around a certain…hard…area (he’s trying to keep it PG13 just in case god or whatever the hell is up there is watching, okay?). His obsession with Harry’s lips is obscene, honestly, he could write sonnets about them, so it just makes sense that his dreams pair them with his dick—his two greatest passions.

Dream Harry’s candy floss lips press all the way down to golden skin, and Dream Louis is sent so far over the edge that real Louis is shocked awake with a tiny gasp. And the gods of sex or love or dicks or blowjobs are smiling down upon him (he’ll have to send them a thank you note), because, wouldn’t you know it, there go those strawberry lips, and there goes Louis’s blood pressure.

“Jesus, Harold,” he stammers, balling the silk sheet into his fists. “I don’t remember—hnngh—phoning for a—fuck—wake up call.”

Harry pulls away with a wet pop and flashes Louis a winning smile. “It’s one of our finest services here at the Big White Palace, Mr. Tomlinson.”

Louis moans weakly and throws his head back into the pillow. “Don’t call me Mr. Tomlinson again unless you want me to come without you even touching me, because that would just a waste of your talent and my dignity.”

Harry’s fingers dig hungrily into the thickness of Louis’s thighs. Louis bites his lip (hard enough that he’s sure he’ll need anesthesia and stitches) and dares to look up at Harry, which, of course, he immediately regrets. Harry’s eyes are dark, dilated, and a little crazed.

“Do you have a power kink, Mr. Tomlinson?” Harry’s voice is several octaves deeper, and Louis is several octaves harder (pretend that wasn’t completely stupid, he’s just too horny to make any sense, honestly).

Louis bites his lip harder (six stitches, he estimates) as Harry roughly kisses along the inside of his thighs.

“Do you like to feel strong?” Harry pushes Louis’s jumper up and plants quick, feverish kisses along the thin trail of hair leading to Louis’s belly button. “Important?” Teeth graze across the tender skin of Louis’s stomach. “In control?”

“Curly,” Louis hisses, “I have absolutely no control right now.” He reaches down and grips Harry’s curls tightly in his hand, withdrawing a desperate moan from the younger boy. “Get your mouth back on my dick. Now.”

Harry grins through another moan as Louis tugs on his hair again. “I’m an innocent flower,” he says thickly. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Tomlinson.”

Louis jerks Harry’s head up harshly, forcing himself to stare into Harry’s blown out pupils. “I’m your boss,” he spits, deciding that playing into this whole Mr. Tomlinson thing sit eh only way to get what he wants. “I’m not going to beg for it. Now do what I say.”

After a quick swipe of his tongue across his obscene lips, Harry obediently returns to the task at hand. When Harry’s nose presses down to Louis’s skin, Louis shoves his fist into his mouth (the last shit he needs is Niall mocking how noisy Louis is…again). It’s still not enough to stifle the little whimpers and gasps that slip out (honestly, give him a break. He’s horny as shit, okay? And if anyone saw the goddamn angel blowing him right now, they would completely understand).

When he comes it feels like a supernova in his body and when he squeezes his eyes shut he sees stars. Harry swallows cheerfully before planting a kiss to Louis’s knee and crawling up the bed to lay beside him.

Still lost somewhere between the sun and the moon, Louis breathes, “You’re fucking perfect, you know that?”

A sweet giggle fills the room and dances around Louis’s ears. “I am not.”

Louis opens his eyes and rolls onto his side so he’s facing his boy. “I mean it,” he murmurs, tracing a circle where Harry’s heart is beating. “You’re everything.”

Dusty pink blush colors Harry’s face. “You’re sweet.”

Louis shrugs. “Only to you.”

Harry props himself up on his elbow and blinks slowly at Louis. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

It comes out without Louis even thinking. He stiffens and desperately tries to backtrack, to lock those words back where they belong. “I mean—“

“You said it,” Harry whispers. The smile on his China doll face is bright enough to challenge the sun. “You said you love me.”

Louis sits up and claws his boxers back up, suddenly very aware that his flaccid penis is just out and about. “No I didn’t.” His face feels like it’s on fire. Maybe he’s in hell?

“You did!” Harry shouts giddily. “You love me!”

Panic fills Louis’s brain. His head is a hive of bees. “No I don’t!” he protests, pointedly looking away. “Shut up.”

Calloused fingers press into the side of Louis’s face, forcing him to turn his head and look into Harry’s glowing eyes. And of course it’s enough to melt him into a pathetic pile of goo. He opens and closes his mouth like some kind of stupid fish and just stares at the unbelievable beauty before him. If he had any talent or interest in writing, he’d write novels about this boy. Novels that would kick Shakespeare’s ass. He’s just so beautiful. How can one person be so beautiful?

“It’s okay if you love me, you know,” Harry murmurs, rubbing across Louis’s cheekbone with his thumb. “It’s good to love people, I think.”

Louis swallows and decides to accept that the jig is up. He’s been caught redhanded. And Harry’s right—it probably is goos to love people. Nothing bad comes from love except for in Romeo and Juliet, right? And everyone knows that story is bullshit (that’s right, he said it. Fuck you, Shakespeare).

“Well, I guess I’ll accept my fate of being an idiot in love,” he announces dramatically.

Harry does that stupid honking laugh that only ever happens when he thinks something is truly hilarious, and it makes Louis’s eyes go all crinkly. Harry leans forward and kisses him. He can taste himself on Harry’s tongue, in the bow of his lips, and normally that would disgust him to no end, but it’s a small price to pay if he gets to kiss this boy.

Harry pulls away with a dopey grin on his face. “I love you,” he chirps.

Louis rolls his eyes in the most disgustingly fond way possible. “You’re going to be the death of me, Harry Edward.”

~~~

 

They've been at the Big White Palace for three days, so when Louis wakes up one morning to find Harry already gone, he decided it’s time for him to explore. He’s only been in the kitchen, living room, one bathroom, and their bedroom, and his curiosity has finally gotten the best of him.

One in room in particular has been calling his name. It’s the one at the end of the hall that’s tucked away under the huge spiral staircase. Niall found the obscure little corridor yesterday when they were playing and hide and seek. After two hours of searching, Zayn and Liam called it a quits and disappeared upstairs (lOuis shudders to think what they might have been doing behind closed doors), leaving Harry and Louis to find the Irishman.

As soon as he was found, Niall announced that they were “a bunch of twats who sucked at hide and seek” and sauntered off to the kitchen to fix himself a sandwich. Ordinarily, Louis would’ve found the dimly lit hallway boring and disgusting, but then the shiny metallic of the padlock on the last door caught his eye, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since. Harry thought it was creepy and strange and dragged Louis away with promises of sex and cuddling, but now, as Louis stands alone before the door, there’s no one here to stop him from finding out what’s locked up behind it. He’s just got to know.

The door is far enough away from everything else that Louis is certain nobody will hear him (they didn’t hear Niall’s maniac laughter for fuck’s sake), so he doesn’t hesitate in destroying it. He decided the padlock was a lost cause, so he approaches the problem with an elegant solution (basically, he just hacks the door to pieces with an axe he found in the garden shed).

Of course, it works like a charm. The hole he’s created looks like a toothy, black, yawning mouth. It’s quite creepy and the whole thing makes the hair at the back of his neck stand up, but he’s come too far to back down now. If there’s one thing he is, it’s stubborn.

Using the lighter he stole from Zayn’s jacket to light the way, Louis steps through the jagged gap. His foot lands on a wooden plank that whines under his weight. The lighter hardly helps, but he can just barely make out a set of stairs leading down into the cold, cold dark.

It looks very unsafe and it’s quite terrifying, if he’s being perfectly honest. All he can think about is the likelihood that when he reaches the bottom of the stairs he’s going to stumble into a pile of dead bodies, which isn’t something he’s be too thrilled to see, but he’s got to know. Who the hell padlocks a door if they don’t have something important to hide? Nobody, that’s who.

“Alright, Louis,” he breathes, “be a man. Go down the stairs.”

Attributing his shaking limbs to the pure masculinity coursing through his veins, Louis forces himself to begin the journey down the steps. Each one screams and groans in protest, and each time he’s convinced that he’s just going to bust through and fall to his death.

But he doesn’t. And before he knows it he’s standing on a solid concrete floor without a dead body in sight (although he’s still quite positive he’s going to run into one. It would just make sense given the murderous vibe the place is giving off).

He takes a step forward and shrieks (he’s a man, he didn’t shriek, he’s a man) in terror as something brushes across his face. Louis takes a moment to collect himself before rounding on the offender (fully expecting to come face to face with a masked villain) to find a thin chord dangling down in front of him. He gives it a quick tug, silently praying it doesn’t release a shower of human skulls or poisonous spiders, and blinks in surprise when a lightbulb flickers on and bathes the room in a watery yellow. Louis slides Zayn’s shitty lighter into his pocket and looks around the room.

It’s small, a lot smaller than he was expecting, but it’s definitely just as weird as he was expecting. Along one wall there’s a hospital bed with thick leather straps where the wrists and ankles would go (and he’s pretty sure they’re not there for someone with a BDSM kink). Beside the “bed” is a regular old nightstand featuring a lamp with a floral shade, and further down the wall is an ornate oak wardrobe.

“What the fuck?” Louis mutters. It’s like a makeshift bedroom in an asylum.

He’s honestly a little frightened to turn around and look at the wall behind him, but he forces himself to do it (he’s going to have to turn around eventually to leave anyway).

The wall is completely plastered with photographs. Louis’s chest feels tight as he walks closer to observe them. There’s something very familiar about them, but he can’t quite place it yet. Something is wrong about it.

A black and white cat curled up in a plush chair. A shy little girl peeking around one of the columns of the Big White Palace’s front porch. The same little girl sitting on a couch staring a tiny baby laid carefully in her lap. A tall and skinny man with jet black hair and dark, dark eyes wearing a suit and holding the cat in his arms.

Something isn’t right about him.

A beautiful woman with her head thrown back in laughter, chocolate hair cascading over her shoulders. The backs of two children against the sunset, holding hands and the smaller one holding a stuffed bear. The laughing woman, barefoot, sitting on the front steps of the Big White Palace with her hands resting on her very pregnant belly.

It’s not until Louis sees the picture in the bottom righthand corner that the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. When he sees the brown-headed little boy holding out a thumbs-up to the camera, he feels sick to his stomach. When he sees the sweet pink of the bow shaped lips, goose pimples rise up all over his arms and legs. When he sees the dimple carved into the boy’s cheek, he loses his breath. When he sees the brilliant green of the eyes of the unknowing, cheerful little boy staring back at him, it feels like the room is spinning and he has to sit down and put his head between his knees.

This just doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make _sense_.

But it does, doesn’t it?

_I think we’ll find somewhere soon. I have a good feeling about it…_

_I saw him and I told him I’d do anything he wanted if he didn’t hurt Louis._

_What did he want you to do?_

_To tell him where we’re going…_

_How the hell did you find this?_

_Just got lucky, I guess._

And oh god, it makes sense. It explains everything. Louis feels like the world is turning too quickly and he needs to get off before it’s too late.

_I don’t remember anything from before I got here. I don’t know anything…I don’t know who I am…_

_It’s always these guys—two of them—standing on either side of me and they…they’re holding me down even though I’m strapped down to, like, a table._

They did that here. They tortured Harry _here_. In his own fucking home. And this is his goddamn bedroom, isn’t it? This fucking torture chamber dungeon? Louis feels like he’s going to puke or pass out when he thinks about his boy strapped to his “bed” staring at this happy wall of pictures of his childhood. Of his family. Of his life.

Louis stands up on trembling legs and stumbles over to the wall. The man in the suit isn’t right. He needs to look at him again, needs to figure out what’s wrong.

_I don’t think he was my father. I know he was my father._

When Louis sees another, newer picture of the man in the suit, he realizes the problem. The cold burn of his pitch black eyes. The smirk on his eerily pale face. The close crop of his graying black hair. The lack of anything about him that resembles life, that resembles something human. Louis has seen him so many times before, just like this, and he couldn’t even recognize him as a seemingly happy young man. He hates this man, hate this man with all of his heart. Always has. This man is the reason Louis’s family is dead, the reason he had to become a Rebel, the reason Harry was tortured, the reason Niall was shot, the reason Louis was shot, the reason Liam watched his entire family be murdered, the reason Zayn can’t go a day without smoking.

This man is President Styles.

This man is Harry’s father.

~~~

A scream cutting through the silence of the basement jerks Louis out of his state of shock. Despite the jelly in his legs, Louis takes off running up the rickety staircase. His heart is racing and his palms are slick with sweat and he’s tripped twice already, but he can’t stop.

The silence that follows the scream is so much worse.

Something is fucking wrong.

His mates are in danger. His boyfriend is in danger. He has to save them.

By the time he stumbles out of the hole in the door cold sweat has made his fringe stock to his forehead. Pure terror courses through his veins as he runs, clutching a stitch in his side, down the hallway under the stairs.

Then there’s the sound of gun fire.

“Stop!”

“Let him go!”

“Drop your guns! It’s not helping!”

“Are we supposed to just let them kill you?”

“They won’t!”

_This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. This isn’t real._

But when Louis rounds the corner into the lavishly decorated living room, he knows it’s real. The men holding Harry’s arms behind his back and a knife to the love-bite on his throat are real. The dead Conformist lying on the ornate rug in a puddle of blood is real. Zayn, Niall, and Liam are really standing there, weapons at their feet, staring at Harry in horror and the Conformists holding him in contempt. President Styles, dressed to the nines in a gray pinstripes suit and sat in one of the armchairs directly across from Louis, is real.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” President Styles says coolly.

“What’s going on?” Louis demands, eyes trained on Harry. “Are you okay?”

Harry smiles weakly at him. “I’m fine.”

“Why do you have a knife to his throat?” Louis asks as he moves to stand in front of his boy. “Let him go.”

Harry’s eyes widen as Louis slips his hand into his pocket to retrieve his pistol. “Lou, stop. Don’t do that. Please,” he begs. His voice is pained and desperate. “Please.”

Louis curls his fingers around the gun. “Why not?”

“They’ll kill you.”

“I’d rather me be dead than you, Curly,” Louis whispers.

Harry searches Louis’s face, pleading. “Don’t do this. Please.”

President Styles rises from his seat and strolls over. He places one of his bony, claw-like hands on Louis’s shoulder, igniting a white hot anger in Louis’s belly.

“As sweet as this is,” President Styles drawls, “I’m going to have to interrupt.”

Louis jerks his shoulder roughly, knocking his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

President Styles draws his thin lips into a frown. “You’re making a terrible first impression with your father in-law, Louis.”

Louis knows he’s being stupid when he goes to rip the pistol out of his pocket and shoot him right in the face. He knows that. He should be grateful for Liam gripping his arm and pulling him away and holding him tightly against his chest. He knows that too. But he’s not grateful. Louis is livid and he thrashes against Liam’s broad chest, desperate to be free and just fucking kill Harry’s father, but his strength is no match for Liam’s.

“Let me go!” he spits. “Let me fucking kill him!”

An eery laugh floats out of President Styles’s mouth. “Don’t be foolish, Louis. Your friend is saving your life.”

Louis stomps on Liam’s foot and makes him cry out with pain, but it’s not enough to loosen his grip. Just as he’s about to do it again, Niall dives down and wraps himself around Louis’s leg, effectively shackling him to Liam’s body.

Niall looks up at him apologetically before looking back down. “It’s for the best, mate.”

“You’re just going to let them kill him?” Louis demands harshly. His heart is going a million miles a minute. “Let me at least try. Let me go and let me try. I can’t just—we can’t just let them take him without a fight. We can’t just let them kill him without a fight!”

His voice cracks and he sounds pathetic. He is pathetic. The love of his life is going to be fucking murdered and he isn’t even strong enough to break away from Liam and Niall’s grasp to save him.

“Harry really isn’t worth all of the trouble, Louis,” President Styles tells him, glancing at his son with disdain. “Not for you anyway. I’ve spent too much time and effort on this boy to just let him go free. He’s done his job, now it’s time for him to go home.” He shrugs and slides his long hands into his pockets. “Simple as that.”

“He _is_ home,” Louis snaps. “He’s home with me.”

President Styles coos at Louis before turning to look at the Conformists behind him. “How sweet is that, boys?” He laughs, sharp and airy, and returns his attention to Louis. “I’m just taking back what’s mine.”

“You have no right!”

“He’s my son, Louis,” President Styles retort. “I have all of the right in the world.”

Louis growls with frustration as he tries to lunge at the president again. “Fuck you! You can’t take him!”

“What are you going to do with him?” Zayn asks evenly. He comes to stand closer to Louis, giving his captive wrist a gentle squeeze. Louis knows it’s supposed to be a comforting gesture, but it’s not. At all.

President Styles smiles wickedly. “Excellent question, Zayn,” he replies. “We’re just going to use him as the face of our side, that’s all. How many Rebels are going to be willing to fight when they see that their founder is on my side now? Hmm?”

Louis hates this man. Hates him. “God. Fuck—“

“He won’t turn against us,” Zayn protests.

President Styles looks positively delighted. “But he already has.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Louis asks. Rage is bubbling at the back of his throat.

“He brought you all here, didn’t he?” President Styles answers. He focuses his beady eyes on Louis. “You know what this place is, don’t you?” Louis raises his chin and (for once) bites his tongue. “Yes, he knows. This is where Harry grew up. He knew I’d easily be able to find you here.”

“But you found him before,” Liam points out, voice rumbling against Louis’s back.

President Styles nods. “That’s true, I did. But it wasn’t enough for Harry to be willing to turn against you all. He needed to remember who he was better than just being able to recognize his own father. So I told him to come here.”

“If he turned against us, we’d all be dead,” Zayn says.

“Not necessarily. I have no interest in killing you, you’ll die soon enough,” President Styles responds, waving his hand dismissively. “I just want to know where you’re going so I can kill all of you at once. Kill two birds with one stone and all that. This little rebellion is exhausting, and I just want it to be over, quite frankly.”

“Can’t you take one of us instead?” Louis asks, panic rising up in his chest. “Can’t you take me? I’m a Rebel too. I can be just as effective as—“

“That won’t work, I’m afraid,” President Styles interrupts. “Harry is my best bet. Nobody will care about you. You’re insignificant.”

Harry shakes his head, curls falling into his glassy eyes. “That’s not true.”

President Styles rolls his eyes. “I should’ve known you’d fall for this one. You’ve always been a sucker for blue eyes and cheekbones.” He shakes his head. “It’s pathetic.”

“Shut up,” Louis hisses. “He’s not pathetic.”

“Anyway,” the president continues cheerfully, “I’m feeling particularly generous today, so I’ll give you all one chance to keep Harry with you.”

Louis’s heart slams against his ribs, desperate to break free. “Anything. We’ll do anything.”

“Tell me where you’re going, and he’s yours.” He carefully adjusts Harry’s fringe and fixes them all with a tight smile. “I won’t need him after I know that.”

Before Louis even has the chance to speak, to tell the truth and save Harry, Liam claps his thick hand over his mouth. Panic is dancing through his body and he shakes wildly in Liam’s arms, but it’s not enough. He can’t get the words out as anything more than a muffled shout.

“Brighton,” Zayn tells him quickly. “We’re going to Brighton. Now give him back.”

President Styles frowns. “That’s not true.”

“Yes it is,” Niall protests.

“No, it is not. I don’t believe a word of it.” He sighs and runs his hands through his salt and pepper hair. “Looks like I’ll be keeping him after all.”

“No!” Louis screams. But it just sounds like a scream from miles away under Liam’s hand.

He glances thoughtfully at Harry. “I suppose I’ll let you two lovers say your goodbyes.”

Zayn narrows his eyes. “Why would you do that for them?”

President Styles puts a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “I’m hurt, Zayn, that you think I could be such a monster.” He turns to Liam and waves his hand. “Let Louis go. Let Harry go as well, actually. He’s not going anywhere.”

When Liam and Niall release their grip, Louis bolts across the room to Harry and cups his boy’s face in his trembling hands. “Harry, why would you do this? We could've saved you. We could've--“

"I did it to protect you."

"But--"

"Louis, listen to me, okay?"

"Okay," Louis agrees shakily.

"You have to hear this. I have to tell you this. Before..." Harry trails away and bites his lip before continuing. "No matter what happens, no matter what they do to me this time...I won't forget you."

Louis swallows, hard, fighting the bile that's rising up in his throat. "Harry..."

"I could never forget you, Louis Tomlinson," he whispers, green burning into blue.

"Always in my heart, Harry Edward."

President Styles clears his throat before pointedly correcting Louis. “His name is Harry Styles, Louis. Please address him properly.”

“I’m not going to call him anything associated with you,” Louis snaps. He holds President Styles’s gaze for a heartbeat before turning back to his boy. His wonderful, precious boy that he’s about to lose forever. “Please let me tell them the truth.”

Harry shakes his head before he presses a feathery kiss to the fringe covering Louis's forehead. "I love you."

"I lo--"

"Don't say it now," he interrupts, shaking his head. "Save it for when I might need some help remembering."

Louis searches Harry's face desperately. "But what if I never see you again?"

Harry gives him a sad smile. "You will."

"You don't know--"

"Time to go," one of the Conformist says gruffly, gripping Harry's arm in one of his meaty fists.

"Please don't take him," Louis pleads.

"I'll see you later, yeah?"

Louis rapidly blinks away his tears. “Yeah.”

And just like that, as quickly as Louis found his boy, he’s managed to lose him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything has gone to shit, as in most of the UK has been destroyed by the corrupt government and nobody can be trusted. Louis and Zayn are partners in crime armed with devilish good looks, quick wit, and actual weapons. Liam is a guarded badass with a soft spot for one particular boy. Niall is a box of giggles and dick drawings, and a surprising amount of knowledge. Harry is a particularly affectionate boy with no memory of a life before Louis found him in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fair warning, the beginning has a few suicide mentions, so it that's something that is triggering to you please skip the first two sections!!!

A week has passed since Harry was taken. Or maybe it’s been two weeks? Louis doesn’t know. Everything seems to be melting and falling into one endless hell without Harry (no, he’s not being dramatic. He really means it).

One thing he’s certain of, though, is that he’s still angry. He’s angry with Zayn for saying they were going to Brighton. He’s angry with Liam for holding him back and stopping him from telling the truth. He’s angry at Niall for helping Liam (but mostly just because he misses Harry and his feet are sore from where Niall was sat on them). He knows he shouldn’t be mad, because the boys did save him from being shot (again) but he can’t help but think he’d rather be dead than seeing Harry tortured or murdered every time he closes his eyes. So he’s going to continue being mad, thank you.

Louis sighs and slows down even further in an attempt to increase the distance between him and the other lads. He just wants to be with Harry, but since he can’t have that, he just wants to be alone.

“Tommo, let’s talk,” Niall says, sidling up to Louis and drooping an arm over his shoulder.

Louis frowns (he never gets what he wants). “No thanks.”

Niall pulls his arm away and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. “You can’t stay mad at us forever.”

“Yes, I can,” Louis retorts, mostly because he’s bitter and stubborn.

“So you’re just planning to be a Rebel on your own?” Niall asks, exasperated. “Because that seems really fuckin’ stupid to me. You’ll get yourself killed acting like that.”

_I wish._

“Maybe I will.”

Niall shakes his head. “You’ve got to get your head out of your arse.” Louis opens his mouth to make an indignant protest, but Niall holds his hand up and continues, “You act like we killed him. You know he gave himself up to save us, probably mostly you. There’s nothing we could’ve done to save him, Louis.”

“You could’ve told him we were going to London.”

Niall lets out a bark of laughter. “Do you honestly think that cunt would’ve given Harry back if we’d told him?”

“Maybe,” Louis mutters even though he knows it’s not true.

“He wouldn’t have. Letting Harry go was the only we had,” Niall replies gently. “Harry chose to sacrifice himself. He brought us to the house. It was what he wanted.”

He’s completely aware that Niall is right. It was Harry’s choice, without a doubt, to go with President Styles. But that doesn’t make it suck any less. It doesn’t make Louis feel any better.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore alright, Niall?” Louis snaps.

Niall sighs. “I’m just trying to help you, mate.”

“I know that, but I don’t need your help, alright?”

Even though he’s not looking, Louis can feel Niall’s even gaze on the side of his face. “Alright. I’ll leave you alone then.” He pauses before adding, “When you’re ready to talk, let me know.”

After giving Louis a tentative pat on the back, Niall strolls back up to walk alongside Zayn and Liam, leaving Louis alone. Just like he wanted.

He watched as Liam throws his scruffy head back in laughter. An amused grin dances across Zayn’s perfect face. Niall giggles and bounces up and down giddily. Louis isn’t sure how to feel about it. Part of him feels angry that they’re having such a good time without Harry (and without Louis), while another part of him longs to join in, but that just makes him feel guilty. He shouldn’t want to have fun while Harry is being tortured ( _maybe he’s already dead_ a small voice in his head adds). It seems wrong to do. It definitely feels wrong.

The guilt gnawing at his belly keeps him hanging back, maintaining the space between them. Louis is hurting, miserable, and alone. Just like he should be.

~~~

Louis leans back in the plastic lawn chair he’s sat in and stares at the crackling wood in the fire pit They’re resting at an old campsite for the night. The moon is high overhead and stars are covering the midnight blue sky like a patchwork quilt, but Louis can’t sleep.

According to his watch, it’s 2:17 on the first of February. It’s Harry’s birthday.

He hopes and prays to whatever is up there that his boy is alive for his twentieth birthday.

He can’t help but imagine what it would be like if Harry were still here. It’s so easy to picture that a tiny smile plays on Louis’s lips. Harry would be sat at his feet, back against Louis’s legs, with his head resting on Louis’s knees. Louis would play with his hair like he loves and contemplate how every single star in the sky fits in the small green of Harry’s eyes. Then Harry would say something stupid and Louis would go all crinkly and press a kiss to his milky forehead.

And he’d tell Harry he loves him. He’d tell him a hundred times. A thousand times. Until his voice died in his throat. He wishes he’d done that before.

As he’s imagining the way Harry’s curls would frame his face, footsteps crunch across the dirt and come to a stop beside Louis (part of him hopes it’s a Conformist come to finish him off). Louis glances over, fully prepared to receive a bullet in the head, welcoming it even, and sees Liam smiling sheepishly at him, which is so much worse.

“What do you want?” Louis asks bitterly, turning back to the bright orange of the fire.

Liam shuffles his feet nervously. “I woke up to pee and saw you were still awake, so I thought I’d come check on you.”

Louis bristles and crosses his arms tightly over his chest. “Thanks, but I don’t need you babysitting me, Liam.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Liam replies quietly.

Louis can hear the hurt in Liam’s voice, but he doesn’t care. Liam is the reason President Styles is alive (his conscience reminds him that Liam is also the reason he’s alive, but he ignores it. He wishes he were dead, so Liam didn’t really do him any favors).

“Just go back to sleep with your boy,” Louis says in a low tone. “At least you still have yours.”

Out of the corner of his eye Louis can see Liam flinch as if he struck him.

 _Good_.

“That’s not fair.”

Louis’s bitter laugh echoes eerily around the campsite. “Oh, I’m sorry, how insensitive of me! I forgot how unfair it is that Harry got to go be tortured and you were forced to keep Zayn!” He shakes his head and kicks a rock into the fire with the toe of his shoe. “Just fuck off, Liam. Leave me alone.”

There’s a long silence as Liam drags a plastic chair next to Louis’s and settles down. The burly Rebel picks up a flat rock, uses it to dig the dirt out from under his broken nails, and keeps his eyes trained on the flickering flames in the fire. Louis watches him, notices the glassy sheen to Liam’s deep brown eyes and the way the fire dances across it, but he doesn’t comment on it.

Just as he settles back into the uncomfortable plastic of his chair and begins to close his eyes, Liam speaks. “What did you think would happen? If you told President Styles about London?” Louis shifts in his seat and doesn’t answer, just stares up at the stars twinkling overhead. “Did you think he’d give Harry back?”

Louis swallows back a cutting remark. “I did.”

“And what do you think now?”

“I know he wouldn’t have.”

Liam nods and tosses the rock across the campsite. It knocks into a tree with a dull thud. “I wanted to save him just as much as you, you know.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“What could I have done?” Liam asks, glancing over at Louis seriously. “Let you tell him where we were going? Let you kill yourself?”

Sinking lower into the chair, Louis shrugs. “The latter would’ve been a good start.”

Liam stares at him for a heartbeat before answering. “You think if you killed yourself he would’ve given him back? You think he would’ve been satisfied that you were dead? That you died for Harry? You think he would’ve thought you were some kind of hero and returned Harry as a reward?”

Anger burns in Louis’s veins. He rips his attention away from the sky and fixes it a white-hot glare on Liam. “Do you think you’re being funny or summat? Is this all some big joke to you?” He snorts and jerks his pistol out of his pocket. “Would it be funny to you if I just blew my brains out right now?” he spits, bringing the gun to his temple. “Would you get a laugh?”

Liam blinks. “Harry let himself be captured to save you,” he says slowly, “and you’re going to repay him by offing yourself.”

Tears pricking at the back of his eyes, Louis drops the pistol onto the ground and turns away. He watches the sparks fly off of the logs, blinking back the hot tears and curling his fingers around the arm of his seat until his knuckles turn white.

“What do you want from me, Liam?” he asks. His voice breaks. He’s so tired. “What do you want me to say? That I’m happy we let him go?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want?”

Liam leans over and picks Louis’s pistol back up off of the ground. “For you to stop thinking this is about you.”

Louis looks over at him. He can hardly see him through the wall of tears blurring his vision. “What do you mean?”

“This is a lot bigger than you and Harry, Louis, and it seems like you’ve forgotten that,” he explains, gently placing the gun in Louis’s lap. “Whatever happens now isn’t for you. It isn’t for Harry. It isn’t for any of us. It’s for the people who can’t fight for themselves. You used to know that, when we first met. It doesn’t seem like you do anymore.”

“Of course I do!” Louis protests.

A gentle smile colors Liam’s face. “You’ve been blinded by love, mate.”

“No I haven’t.”

“You have.”

“So you’re telling me you wouldn’t have tried to save Zayn if it had been him?”

Liam blinks. “Not if it would’ve meant killing thousands of others.”

Louis shakes his head. “You’re a liar.”

“No I’m not. I love Zayn. I love him more than anything,” he responds. “But I wouldn’t have done it. I wouldn’t have let thousands of innocent people die to protect him. That’s selfish. This isn’t about me.”

“I guess you’re a better man than I am,” Louis mumbles.

“No, I don’t think so,” Liam murmurs. “I’m just keeping things in perspective. Do you think you would’ve felt good about telling President Styles where we were going if it meant your family was going to be murdered?”

Louis actually laughs at that. “My family’s already dead, Liam.”

“So is mine. So is Zayn’s. And the only reason Niall's isn't is because they're in Ireland.” Liam smiles weakly. “Isn’t it ironic that Harry’s the only one who’s got any family left, and he still can’t save them?”

“I don’t understand the point you’re trying to make,” Louis whispers around the lump in his throat.

Liam sighs. “My point is, you can’t keep fighting this war with Harry in mind, okay? It’s only going to prevent you from actually helping anyone. We’re all any of us has left. You can’t keep being angry at us for saving you.”

“You saved me at Harry’s expense,” Louis murmurs tartly.

“Sometimes one person has to die to let the others live. Letting Harry go was the only way to keep any of the Rebels safe. Not just us. Not just you.”

He hates that Liam is right. He hates that he knows there’s no chance of anyone surviving without Harry in President Styles’s clutches. He hates everything about this. Everything about this stupid fucking war and this stupid fucking situation. Most of all though he just hates that he’s not dead, because god, wouldn’t that be sweet relief from all of the pain and suffering?

“Do you think he’s still alive?” Louis whispers as a tear breaks through the barrier and rolls down his cheek, falling onto the front of his jumper in a tiny wet spot.

“Yes.” Liam folds one leg over the other and tips his head back. “Do you?”

Louis smiles as another tear spills over his lip and into his mouth. It tastes like salt. “No.”

~~~

“Louis, what are you doing?”

Not tearing his eyes away from the milky expanse of flesh before him, Louis murmurs, “I want to be able to close my eyes and see you still.” He runs the pad os his index finger along the butterfly splayed across his chest. “Just like this.”

Harry taps Louis on the nose. “You look cute when you focus.” He quickly adds, “You look cute all of the time, actually.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Curly,” he says softly, moving his finger down to the laurels by his hips.

Harry laughs, the awkward loud one that makes him clap a hand over his mouth. “I think it already has.”

Unable to fight the smile blooming on his face, Louis inches forward along the bed and gives Harry a peck on the cheek. “I love you a lot,” he breathes against his boy’s neck. “Do you know that?”

“I know,” Harry replies, curling a hand under Louis’s chin and bringing his face to Harry’s. “Did you know that I also love you a lot?”

“I had a feeling.”

Harry snorts and presses his satin lips against Louis’s. “You’re too clever for your own good.”

Overwhelmed by the warmth in his chest and the bubbling burn in his veins, Louis leans forward and kisses Harry again, because he can. Because he wants to. He smiles into the kiss, giggles when Harry tickles his side. Because he wants this forever.

He pulls away to tell Harry that he intends on keeping him, that Harry better get used to having Louis by his side every day. When he opens his mouth, bony white hands dig into Harry’s broad shoulders and rip him out of Louis’s grasp.

He watches in horror as the shimmering green in Harry’s eyes turns dull and he blinks down at Louis in confusion. “Who are you?”

Louis scrambles to his knees and crawls frantically across the bed towards Harry. He reaches out to grab him, to pull him away from those claws curled around him, but every time he’s close the bed gets longer and Harry gets further away.

“No no no,” he gasps. He can feel his throat tightening and panic is making him light-headed. “No! This can’t be happening.” He looks up at his boy in desperation. “Harry!”

“Who are you?” he asks again.

“No, Harry, please,” Louis chokes out. “Harry, please don’t forget me.” “

Who are you?”

“You promised you’ve never forget!” Louis screams, tears stinging his eyes. “You promised you’d remember me!”

Harry frowns. There’s no recognition in his eyes. There’s nothing past their brilliant color. Absolutely nothing.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know you,” he says genuinely. He glances over his shoulder at the man holding him. “Do you know who this is, Father?”

Louis’s eyes widen as President Styles hooks his chin over Harry’s shoulder, grinning like a cheshire cat. “I do know him, Harry,” he responds seriously, “and he’s a very bad man.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “The one you told me about?”

President Styles nods gravely. “The very same.”

“Don’t listen to him, Harry,” Louis pleads, wiping a sweat-slicked palm on his jumper. “He’s a liar.” H

arry narrows his eyes. “Don’t you dare call my father a liar,” he spits. “Father, what should we do with him?”

President Styles looks Louis directly in the eyes as he says simply, “Kill him.”

Harry gives a curt nod. “Yes, Father.”

As Harry fires the gun into Louis’s skull, blowing Louis’s brains all over the bed and wall, Louis shoots up, trembling and breathing heavily. His heart is running a marathon in his chest (in record time, if anyone was wondering) and a thin layer of cold sweat is making his jumper cling to his back.

Exhaling shakily, Louis runs a hand through his hair and glances around him. He went to bed a good distance away from the other lads, because no matter how many heart to hearts Niall and Liam try to have with him, he’s still angry and bitter. He can’t quite make out Niall in the dark, but he can hear him snoring, and off to his left Liam is sleeping soundly, broad chest rising and falling steadily.

But Zayn, who’s lying on his back next to Liam with his hands clasped together on his chest, is awake and staring evenly at Louis.

Only after Louis pointedly looks away does he hear Zayn speak.

“You alright, mate?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

There’s a rustling as Zayn moves to prop himself up on one elbow. “You’ve been doing this a lot lately,” he comments quietly.

Louis snorts and pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them tightly. “I wonder why,” he responds dryly.

“I used to have bad nightmares,” Zayn continues, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the others. “They started after they killed my mum and dad.”

Louis stiffens. In all of the time he’s known Zayn, he’s never heard him mention his family. The most he’s ever gotten out of him was that they were dead, but Louis is fairly certain he knows that because Zayn felt bad after hearing about Louis’s sisters the first and only time.

And now he’s going to find out what happened. A part of him wishes he wasn’t.

“I know I didn’t see it happen or anything, but I saw them after.” Zayn pauses to sit up before continuing. “I came home from work—I worked in agriculture, picked and washed fruit and loaded everything up to be sent to the capital—and they were in the living room, lying in a pool of their blood.”

“Zayn…”

“My sisters were gone. I still don’t know where they are, obviously, but I’m sure they’re probably dead.” Louis looks over at him in time to see Zayn wipe a tear off of one of his incredible cheekbones with the sleeve of his jumper. “Anyway, they burned all of our pictures—just our faces, you know—and put them back in the frames. And they went through our closets and cut all of our clothes, and they took all of our food.”

Louis swallows the lump in his throat. “Look, Zayn, you don’t have to tell me any of this, just to make me feel better about my own problems or something. You’ve never told me before, don’t start now just for my sake.”

Zayn shakes his head. “I’m not telling you this to make you feel better,” he protests. “There’s a time and place for everything, and now’s the time.”

Louis blinks. “Okay.”

“And my only thought at the time was ‘why didn’t they just burn the house down or summat’, but now I know. I mean, I’ve always known, but now I’m sure. I’m really sure.”

Resting his cheek on his knee, Louis turns his head to look at Zayn. “What is it?”

Zayn gives him a weak smile before shoving his hand into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper and tosses it to Louis. Louis gives him a confused look before unfolding the rumpled piece of paper to find that it’s not a piece of paper at all, but a picture. It’s an old photograph—he must’ve been eight or nine in it—of Zayn. He’s sat at the head of the table with a bright green birthday hat perched on his head and beaming at the camera from behind a cake, the flame of the candle casting shadows across the wall behind him.

The most shocking, and upsetting, thing about the picture is the thick black X across Zayn’s delighted face.

Stomach sinking like a stone, Louis looks up at Zayn and sees the steely glint in his eyes. “At first, I thought it was a threat, ya know?” Zayn says. “That they were going to come back for me, but after what President Styles said, I don’t think that’s it.”

Brow furrowed in confusion, Louis frowns. “So what do you think it was?”

“He said he wanted Harry to make a statement, to teach the Rebels a lesson. That’s what he was doing to me, just like what he’s doing to all of us with Harry.”

Louis looks back down at the picture. The big X seems to be laughing at him, mocking him. “What do you mean, Zayn?”

Zayn locks eyes with Louis, keeping his gaze steady. “They knew I was a Rebel,” he answers carefully. “That’s not an X, Louis.”

The hairs on the back of Louis’s neck stand up, because he knows now what it is. “It’s a screw,” he breathes.

“They made a mistake when they decided not to kill me,” Zayn says, rage edging the quiet of his voice. “Just like they made a mistake when they decided to take Harry. They wanted to teach us a lesson. Now it’s time to teach them one.”

A flame roars to life in Louis’s chest. “How are we going to do that?”

Zayn picks his rifle up and slides the strap over his shoulder. “Wake the lads up. I’m going to go get us some water.” When Louis doesn’t move, Zayn walks over and extends his hand. “Come on then. We need to get going.”

Louis blinks up at him. The sun isn’t even up yet. “Where are we going?” he asks, taking Zayn’s hand and getting to his feet.

Zayn claps him on the shoulder and flashes his most charming smile. “We’re going to get Harry back.”

~~~

By the time Louis reaches the top of the hill they’re climbing, he’s already shed his jacket and he’s able to slick his hair back with the sheer amount of sweat he’s accumulated. It’s still cold out, but the hill is at about a ninety degree angle nd his body isn’t taking it too kindly.

“I thought you said we were going to get Harry back?” he mutters, leaning forward with his hands on his hips as he tries to catch his breath. “Are we even near the capital?”

Zayn snorts. “What? Did you think we were just gonna take the capital with the four of us?”

“Well, no, but—“

“Alright,” Niall interrupts, flopping down on the ground by Louis and shutting his eyes. “Who’s gonna carry me the rest of the way? That fuckin’ hill killed me knee.”

Liam strolls over and holds his hand out to help Niall to his feet. “You can ride on my back,” he offers. “It doesn’t look like we have much further to go though.”

Louis frowns and glances sideways at him. “How the hell can you tell?”

“If you’d just stand up and _look_ you’d see what he means,” Zayn answers.

After pushing his wet hair out of his face, Louis looks up and his jaw promptly drops. If it weren’t for the river, the landscape before him would look no different from the rubble everywhere else. A pile of bricks here. A burnt out building there. But there it is, one of the most famous rivers in the world (or at least he thinks it’s famous. It’s hard to know given that he wasn’t allowed to have an education).

The River Thames.

They’re in London.

Eyes wide as saucers, Louis looks over at Zayn. “I…how?” he stammers. “How did we find it?”

Brown eyes sparkling in the bright afternoon sun, Zayn grins and replies, “My dad took me camping back at that site for my tenth birthday, ‘cause I thought I wanted to be some kind of survivalist or summat.”

“Kind of ironic, innit?” Louis comments, returning his attention to the river.

Zayn laughs lightly. “Yeah, I guess. But anyway, we went camping back there, and I fell and sprained my ankle, so he had to carry me through the woods to London.” He shrugs and sweeps his hair out of his eyes. “It’s not really something you forget.”

Niall lets out a bark of laughter from his perch on Liam’s back. “Zayn, you fuckin’ tosser! You knew we were in London and you made us sleep on the ground like animals.”

Zayn shoves Niall’s shoulder gently. “You’re lucky you’re cute or I wouldn’t let you talk to me like that, Blondie.”

Louis frowns. “I have Blondie trademarked, thank you very much,” he sniffs.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “My apologies.”

Liam ducks down to press a kiss to Zayn’s cheek and says, “You’re cute when you’re being cheeky,” just as Niall cover his face with his hands and shouts, “Liam! I’m on your back and I felt like I was a part of that, and you made me throw up in me mouth a little bit, if I’m being honest.”

“Are we ready to go now?” Liam asks, reaching over his shoulder to ruffle Niall’s hair. “Niall’s getting a bit restless.”

“You’re damn right I am,” Niall agrees, kicking Liam’s thighs like you would a horse. “We’ve only been waiting for this moment for a hundred years.”

“Let’s go then,” Louis says, taking the first step down the hill.

“Be careful coming down, babe,” Zayn murmurs to Liam, wrapping his hand gently around Liam’s wrist. “It’s steep and you’ve got extra weight.”

“Are you calling me fat?” Niall demands.

“Of course not.”

“I think I’d feel better if you held my hand,” Liam admits sheepishly.

Niall groans loudly. “Let me down right now. I’d rather walk with Louis.”

Louis glances over his shoulder, eyes crinkling, as Niall slides off of Liam’s back and hobbles over to him. “They’re disgusting, aren’t they?”

“You and Harry were worse.”

Louis gasps indignantly. “We were not!”

“No, you definitely were,” Niall replies. He smiles warmly at Louis. “It’ll be nice to have that back though.”

A pang shoots through Louis’s chest. “You mean that?”

Niall raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I?”

When Louis shrugs in response, he adds, “I give you lads a hard time, but everybody loves love, even if it’s disgusting.”

Louis laughs. “Well thanks, mate.”

“Do you think we’ll really be able to get him back?” Niall asks. “I mean, I know we can, but I just want to know what you think about it all.”

“Yeah, I do,” Louis answers, and he really means it. It’s a nice feeling to truly believe that he’s going to have his boy back in his arms soon. It’s also nice to have the hope, even the belief now, that Harry is still alive.

He hasn’t felt this hopeful in a long time.

When Niall starts babbling about everything he’s going to do once the war is over (and Louis starts thanking god that he’s learned how to tune him out now), an unfamiliar voice shouts, “Stop walking or we’ll shoot!”

Louis whirls around to find a broad-shouldered freckly redhead standing at the top of the hill, holding a gun in each hand. To his left stand a shorter blonde with pale skin and sharp cheekbones and a bow and arrow in his hands, and to his right is a petite black woman, hair hidden behind an orange silk scarf, with a belt holding several knifes, each of them glimmering in the sunlight.

“No need for that,” Liam says, letting go of Zayn’s hand and holding his own up as a sign of peace. “We’re one of you.”

“Let’s see it then,” the redhead demands, gesturing with the barrel of his gun. “We haven’t got all day.”

Liam nods before kneeling down to roll up his pant leg. He flashes the screw at them before standing back up and taking Zayn’s hand again. “Satisfied, mate?”

The redhead hesitates before passing the guns to his companions. “Introduce yourselves,” he instructs. “One at a time.”

“Liam Payne, from Wolverhampton.”

“Zayn Malik, from Bradford.”

“Are you two together?” the blonde interrupts.

Zayn’s golden skin flushes under his stubble. “Erm...yeah.” He shuffles his feet and runs his free hand through his hair. “Is there a reason you’re asking?”

“I’m in charge of housing,” the blonde answers, removing the arrow from his bow and inserting it in the sheath on his back. “What about you two? Are you together as well?”

Niall bursts into laughter.

“No, we’re not,” Louis answers, rolling his eyes. “We can room together, though, if that makes things easier.”

Niall snorts. “Speak for yourself, Tommo.”

“Shut up, Niall.”

“What are your names?” the redhead asks huffily.

“Louis Tomlinson, from Doncaster.”

The redhead nods and points at Niall. “And you?”

“Niall Horan, Mullingar.”

“Alright, good. It’s nice to see new friendly faces,” the redhead admits. “I’m Alex Raven, leader of Rebel Underground.”

Louis frowns. “Rebel Underground?” he echoes.

“It’s what we call the base,” Alex explains. “This is Eliza Allen, head nurse, and Trevor Bennett, housing coordinator.” He pauses briefly fro Eliza and Trevor to say their hellos. “If any of you have injuries, you’re going to go with Eliza to the infirmary when we arrive, otherwise you’ll go with Trevor to your housing assignments.”

Before anyone can agree or disagree, Alex marches past them and leads them down a trail of ash and rock to the left. Louis is about to tell Eliza about the bullet still lodged somewhere in his body when he feels a dry hand grip his elbow.

He follows the hang up to the face it belongs to and finds Trevor blinking shyly at him. “Hi?” Louis offers.

“Hi,” Trevor replies, dropping his hand from Louis’s elbow and falling into step beside him.

Zayn raises an eyebrow at him and Louis gives him an uncertain shrug in return before turning back to Trevor. “Do you need to ask me questions about housing? Because Niall and I aren’t, like…dating or anything, but like I said before—“

Trevor shakes his head. “No, that’s not it.”

Louis blinks. “Oh.”

“I just thought we should get to know each other.”

“Oh,” Louis repeats. He glances over at Niall, hoping for help, but he’s busy animatedly showing off his bullet wound to Eliza. Great.

“Since we’re going to living together, and all,” Trevor continues.

Trevor’s blue eyes are nearly as pale as his skin, but they’re friendly and warm. Louis wishes they were green.

“I’m living with you? I thought I was living with Niall?”

“No, no, you are!” Trevor agrees quickly. “But I just meant…we all live in Rebel Underground, you know?” “

Oh, right,” Louis says, relief washing over him. “Yeah.” Trevor smiles nervously and ruffles his short hair. “You should grow your hair out.”

Trevor laughs and it doesn’t make Louis’s eyes crinkle, but he smiles to be polite. “Why’s that?”

Louis shrugs as his smile fades. “I just like long hair.” He glances at the straight blonde mop on Trevor’s head. “Especially when it’s curly.”

Trevor grins nervously at him. “We kind of have the same hairstyle, me and you. Only mine’s blonde.”

Louis forces a smile as Niall shouts, “Louis, we’re here! Come on, we’ve got to follow Eliza!”

He feels a little guilty when he sees the disappointment written on Trevor’s face, but he mostly just feels relieved when he tells him he’ll see him later before walking away to join Niall and Eliza.

“Making new friends already?” Niall teases, a grin threatening to split open his face (nothing new there).

“I think he wants to pull me,” Louis admits quietly. He winces as Niall’s cackle echoes through the barren landscape. “It’s not funny.”

Niall shrugs. “I think it is.” He throws an arm companionably over Eliza’s shoulder as if he’s known her forever. “Eliza, what do you think?”

“Trevor is like this with every pretty boy we get,” she responds, causing Niall to erupt into a further fit of giggles. “Don’t worry too much about it. Once he gets bored of you, he’ll move on.”

Louis pinches his eyebrows together. “Why would he get bored of me?”

Eliza sighs heavily. “Don’t take it personally, honey. He gets bored of everyone, even people as pretty as you.”

“He’s not that pretty,” Niall protests.

Louis snorts. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m already exhausted by you two,” Eliza mutters, gently shaking Niall’s arm off and veering them down a tiny, barely visible path.

Louis glances over his shoulder and gives Zayn and Liam a quick salute before they round a bend and the other men are no longer visible. He waits too long to turn around though, doesn’t realize that Eliza and Niall have stopped walking, and bumps into Eliza’s back. She turns around and raises a sharp eyebrow at him and he blinks apologetically at her before she returns her focus to the pile of dusty and broken bricks on the ground.

Where they’re standing looks the exact same as every other spot of ground. Or at least it does until Eliza squats and goes to lift one of the bricks, revealing a trap door. The bricks are stuck in a thick sheet of metal and beyond that all Louis can see is black and the faint glint of silver stairs along the wall.

“You two go first,” she instructs. “I’ve got to close the door.”

Louis blinks down at the gaping hole. “How deep is it?”

“Deep,” Eliza replies flatly. “Now go. We can’t just stand around until the sun sets. I’ve got a lot of patients to tend to in the morning, and I'd like to get some sleep."

“How many is a lot?” Niall asks curiously.

“Enough.” Eliza gestures towards the opening in the ground. “Go.”

Niall flashes two thumbs up before climbing down into the hole. The deeper he goes, the more difficult it is to see him, and eventually Louis can’t make out his blonde hair in the dark no matter how hard he squints. The only sign that Niall is even in there is the tinkling sound of laughter floating up and out of the black square.

“This is insane!” Niall calls. “I hope you have a flashlight, Eliza, because it’s fuckin’ dark down here. Can’t see a thing.”

Eliza rolls her eyes but there’s the trace of a smile on her face. “Just don’t try to go anywhere, you’ll get lost.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Eliza glances at Louis and nods at the entrance. “Your turn, little bird.”

“Little bird?”

Eliza shrugs. “Seems fitting.”

Louis smiles—the one that actually reaches his eyes—before taking a deep breath and beginning his descent. He stays focused on keeping his feet sturdy on each step, holding the one above him tightly before moving carefully onto the next, because if he’s being honest, he’s having an irrational fear about falling into the abyss right now. And that just isn’t what he needs, not when he’s so close to his goal. Niall’s voice telling him he’s almost there rings through his ears and he’s secretly thankful to have Niall by his side (and that Eliza made him go first).

Finally, his feet touch the cold stone floor with a quiet click that echoes down the incredibly dark tunnel stretching out before them.

“Niall? Where are you?” he asks, holding his arms out and feeling around blindly.

His hand comes into contact with something and he has to stifle a giggle when Niall shouts, “Oi! What’d you do that for?”

“Sorry, mate,” he responds, patting Niall’s cheek (or at least he assumes it’s his cheek, he really can’t see for shit) gently. “It was an accident.”

“You wouldn’t have hit Harry on accident,” Niall mumbles, hands coming out to lightly shove Louis’s chest.

Louis is about to respond with something cheeky when the trap door slams shut overhead. He jumps (but he doesn’t shriek or anything, obviously) and falls into Niall. There’s a chorus of grunting and body parts hitting the floor as they stumble to the ground.

“Louis! My arse is going to be sore for days,” Niall groans, his voice fading as he struggles back to his feet.

Louis snorts. “Now you know how I feel.”

Niall lets out an offended gasp.

“Quit playing around and come on,” Eliza instructs. Louis feels her brush lightly past him as he stands back up. “I need to check out your injuries and get dinner.”

“We’re hot on your trail,” Niall assures her, pushing Louis forward.

“Don’t push me.”

“That wasn’t me. It’s the tunnel ghost,” Niall retorts.

“ _Tunnel_ ghost?” Louis echoes incredulously.

“That’s right.”

He rolls his eyes and glances over his shoulder at Niall even though he can’t see him. “Is that really the best you could come up with?”

“You put me on the spot!”

“You could’ve done better, Blondie,” Louis decides, turning back to face the tunnel.

Niall makes a disgruntled noise and mutters, “You couldn’t have.”

“I heard that, you twat.”

“Good. You were supposed—“

“Will you two shut up?” Eliza interrupts sharply. She sighs and Louis can just barely see her shaking her head as his eyes adjust to the darkness. “It’s like being with toddlers. I’m not a babysitter, I’m a nurse. So unless you’re bleeding or dying or both, just shut up.”

Niall’s uproarious laughter practically shakes the entire tunnel. “We’re your patients to now, Eli.”

“Not urgent care,” Eliza retorts, ignoring Niall’s newfound nickname for her.

“Are we almost there?” Louis asks.

“Almost.”

Almost is a bit of an understatement. As soon as the words leave Eliza’s lips, the tunnel opens up into a massive, circular room. The walls, made of thick concrete, are peppered with windows, most of which have light blue curtains shut over them. But in the ones that don’t, Louis can see figures milling about, doing regular people things, which is something he hasn’t really seen in a long time. In the center of the fluorescent, brightly lit room is a wide column that stretches all the way up through the roof, and wrapping around the column is a screen. The news (which, god, how long has it been since he’s seen a tv, much less the news?) flashes across the screen but there’s no volume. Surrounding the column are a series of heavy wooden tables with brightly painted chairs. It’s almost nice.

“Is this the whole thing?” Niall asks, craning his neck to look up at the ceiling, which stretches at least a hundred feet above their heads.

“For the regulars, yeah,” Eliza responds as she sets off for a plain looking door across from them.

Louis and Niall exchange a glance before taking off after her. “The regulars?” Louis repeats.

“Rebels and Innocents,” Eliza answers.

“What the hell is an Innocent?”

Eliza rolls her eyes and turns the doorknob for their destination, which features a shiny silver plaque that reads _Infirmary_. “They’re not a Rebel, officially, but they’re not a Conformist. People who are too young or too old to fight are Innocents,” she explains.

Niall nods, seemingly pleased with this answer, before busting into the infirmary behind Eliza. It’s small, definitely not as big as Louis thought it would be, with a few hospital beds lining one wall and a series of cabinets and shelves and drawers on the other. He can’t see how it can possibly be enough for the glory that is Rebel Underground.

“Sit,” Eliza instructs.

Louis plops down on the edge of one of the beds and Niall promptly flops down behind him, sprawling out across the entire bed and tucking his arms behind his head. Louis rolls his eyes before laying back on Niall’s legs. Eliza paces back and forth, quietly humming to herself as she sifts through one of the drawers, and occasionally glancing over at them. For the most part, she looks thoroughly unimpressed, but Louis thinks he can see a little bit of fondness in her dark eyes (it’s a bit hard not to be fond of them. Who wouldn’t be? A crazy person, that’s who).

“Louis, you’re the one I’m most worried about,” she begins, pulling a chair up to them.

Mouth drawing into a frown, Louis eases himself back into a sitting position. “Why?”

“You still have the bullet in you,” Eliza responds absently, scribbling something down on a paper. “That can cause problems in the long-run. The last thing we needs is shrapnel cutting your arteries or stabbing your heart.”

Niall cackles and pokes Louis in the side. “You’re like Iron Man, Tommo.”

Louis snorts. “Hardly.”

“So we’re going to have to take that out,” Eliza continues breezily. “Sooner rather than later.”

Louis blanches. “What?”

Eliza looks up from her papers. “You’re going to have to get that removed. It shouldn’t take too long.”

“But what about Harry?” Louis asks, barely letting Eliza finish her sentence.

She pinches her brows together in confusion. “Harry?”

“He’s in love with him,” Niall replies, sounding slightly bored. “President Styles took him though, so we’re here to get him back.”

“Why would President Styles take someone?”

Louis looks down at his dirty Vans (they’re so interesting, don’t you think?) and uncomfortably scratches his arm. “He’s uh…” He trails off nervously, looking to Niall for help, which was foolish, because Niall just looks back blankly. “He might be—“

“Is,” Niall corrects.

“—the president’s…son.”

Eliza blinks at him. “The president’s son,” she repeats flatly.

“Yes.”

“You’re in love with the president’s son?”

Louis clears his throat awkwardly. “That is correct.”

Eliza studies his face carefully, just for a heartbeat, before returning her attention back to her papers. “We’ll start after I finish this paperwork then,” she says. “You’ll be ready to go get him by the end of the week.”

Louis just gapes at her like she’s sprouted an extra head. “What?”

“Have you ever been under anesthesia?” she asks, ignoring his startled question.

“I…no.”

“Alright, well, it’s going to be a bit weird and you might feel sick afterwards,” Eliza says, “but you’ll be fine.” She shuffles her papers into a neat pile before looking up at Niall. “Niall, if you’ll just head out of here and enter the door to your left you’ll find Trevor and he’ll show you to your room. I’ll handle you tomorrow morning.”

Niall sits up with a groan, muttering about his knee and his bad back and various other ailments, before shuffling out of the infirmary.

Once the door clicks shut softly behind him, Eliza turns back to Louis. “Take your shirt off and lie down.” Louis obeys, only feeling slightly uncomfortable with the fact that his nipples are hard (in his defense, it’s cold in here). “I’m going to go grab my assistant then we’ll put you under and get it over with, okay?”

Louis licks his lips nervously before nodding. “Okay.”

Eliza gives him a small, sweet smile. “Don’t worry, dear. It won’t hurt at all.”

“I’m not scared,” Louis murmurs.

“Of course not,” Eliza agrees. She takes his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “You’ll be back with your boy in no time, little bird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit im sorry this took so long i suck i know im sorry!!! but its here now so yay!!
> 
> i hope you guys like it and i know its kind of boring without harry, but were in the final stretch and theres only one more chapter to go!! 
> 
> come say hi to me on twitter @myboylilo id lovee to talk to you guys!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything has gone to shit, as in most of the UK has been destroyed by the corrupt government and nobody can be trusted. Louis and Zayn are partners in crime armed with devilish good looks, quick wit, and actual weapons. Liam is a guarded badass with a soft spot for one particular boy. Niall is a box of giggles and dick drawings, and a surprising amount of knowledge. Harry is a particularly affectionate boy with no memory of a life before Louis found him in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD I AM SO SORRY THS IS SO LATE I WASNT EXPECTING TO BE SO BUSY I AM SO SORRY but its finally here and i really hope you guys like it and dont hate me!!!

“You want us to attack the capital?” Alex repeats incredulously, setting his palms flat on the desk and leaning forward. “Are you mad?”

Louis leans back in his seat and adjusts his fringe. It’s been a week and a half since his surgery, and he’s beyond restless, to put it lightly. He wanted to approach Alex with his plan the second he woke up from surgery to find an orange cup of Jell-O sitting on a tray beside him, but Zayn told him he needed to at least wait until he could run without passing out. So he waited. And when he could run, Zayn told him he needed to wait until they had an actual plan. So he waited some more. But now he’s got a plan (sort of) and he’s done waiting. He’s never been patient. Why start now?

So now they’re sitting around a long wooden table in Alex’s office. Niall ripping open a bag of crisps to line up on his sandwich. Zayn sitting with his elbows on the table, twiddling his thumbs and looking ethereal and bored. Liam standing up behind Zayn, scribbling some kind of nonsensical map onto a whiteboard. Alex standing at the head of the table, staring at Louis like he’s got two heads and an extra set of arms. And then Louis, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up on the table and frustration bubbling under his veins.

“No, we’re not mad,” Louis snaps.

Alex puffs out a heavy breath through his nose. “Mate, if we thought we could take the capital we would’ve done it ages ago. We’re just not ready for that yet, and I’m not going to send thousands to their deaths.”

Liam pauses his illustrating and glances over his shoulder at Alex. “We’re not one for killing thousands either, Alex,” he says cheerfully.

“Then why are you even here?”

“We have a man on the inside,” Louis responds.

Zayn looks over at him and raises an eyebrow before mouthing, “Don’t lie to him.”

Louis waves his hand dismissively at him before turning back to Alex. “My boyfriend is the president’s son.”

Shock colors Alex’s face. “Your boyfriend—what?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s surprising, whatever.” Louis leans forward and rubs a spot of dirt off of the toe of his shoe. “Anyway, President Styles took him from us to try and use him as a pawn for his side.”

“And he let himself be taken?”

Louis narrows his eyes. “To save us and your sorry ass, yeah.”

“Louis,” Liam says lowly.

“Sorry,” Louis mutters, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

Alex settles down in one of the plush chairs and glances over at Liam’s whiteboard. “How do you know he’s not working with the president willingly?”

Louis bristles and is just about to shout something entirely inappropriate when Niall snorts out a laugh and drops his sandwich back on the tray. “Could you be any more of a dick, Alex?” He leans back in his seat and points at the redheaded leader. “The answer is no, you could not. You honestly think we’d even come here with this plan if we thought there was a fuckin’ chance that Harry was a Conformist?”

“I guess not.”

Niall picks his sandwich back up. Sauce oozes out and runs down the side of his left hand and he promptly licks it off. “We wouldn’t.”

Alex clears his throat awkwardly and drums his fingers on the table. “Alright then.” He quickly looks back at the whiteboard. “Let’s hear this plan.”

Louis smirks as Liam whirls around and claps his hands together. “The board is mostly for getting all of my thoughts out,” he explains, gesturing broadly to it. “And I can explain it fairly well. So first, we think you should let the four of us go up on our own.”

“On your own,” Alex echoes.

“Yes,” Liam says, nodding. “It’s the best option we have.”

Alex shakes his head, exasperated. “No. Absolutely not. That’s a suicide mission.”

“President Styles knows us. He’d just take us hostage.”

“Why on earth would he—“

“He’d do anything to teach us a lesson and make a point,” Zayn interrupts, cleaning the dirt out from under his fingernails with a pen. “And he would probably like to have Harry kill us himself. Really make a show of things. What’s going to beat the Rebels down better than our founder and Louis’s one true love shooting us all in the head?”

“You really think he’ll do that?” Alex asks.

“We know he will.” Zayn pulls the crumpled picture of himself out of his pocket and slides it across the table, which Alex opens nervously, his eyes widening when he sees the screw. “He’s nothing if not predictable.”

“So when President Styles takes us into the capital, Louis will ask for the opportunity to speak to Harry,” Liam continues, gently placing his hand on Zayn’s shoulder. “He’ll let him, because like Zayn said, he’d do anything for a show. Then Louis will talk to Harry, privately, and get him to release us so we can kill the president and his closest guards.” He pauses to consult his board. “After that’s done, Niall will go out to the balcony and throw a Molotov cocktail down on the garage to prevent any Conformists from escaping, which will also serve as a signal for you to send the Rebels up to finish the job.”

Alex blinks slowly. “Even if you have Harry, how are you going to manage to kill the president? He’s easily the most heavily guarded man in the United Kingdom, if not the world. Four men aren’t going to be enough to take him down.”

“Harry knows everything about the capital,” Louis responds ( _as long as he can remember it_ , a small voice adds). “It’s going to be easy to fuck up their communication lines. And we all know Conformists have shit aim, especially if they can’t use all of their fancy technology.”

“But—“ Alex begins.

Louis cuts him off. “Harry is all we need.”

Alex stares at Liam’s whiteboard for a moment before he speaks. “You really think this will work?”

“We know it will,” Louis responds, “but on the off chance that it doesn’t, we’ll be the only ones to die. Nobody else gets hurt. All you’re risking is four losses, and it’s not as if anyone here is particularly attached to any of us.” He adjusts his shoelaces and murmurs softly, “We’re all any of us has. No connections. Nothing to lose.”

“You’re willing to sacrifice yourselves?”

Niall shrugs as he sucks sauce off of his fingers. “Harry did it for us.”

Louis smiles weakly at his friend. “He did.”

“Like Louis said, we don’t have much to lose,” Liam offers.

Alex looks at Zayn. “You’re on board with this too?”

Zayn looks up from his nails, brown eyes steady and even. “Of course. We’re a team.”

“Partners in crime,” Louis says, unable to keep the grin off his face.

“Okay then,” Alex says. “I guess we’re doing this.”

~~~ 

A bead of cold sweat trickles down the back of Louis’s neck, rolls along the curve of his spine. His heart is thumping erratically in his chest and he can barely hold onto the pistol in his hand he’s trembling so hard. Louis glances to the side and sees that Liam, Niall, and Zayn are looking just as poorly as he feels. Pale in the face, glistening with sweat, jaws set in a hard line. For the first time in his life, he’s terrified. Genuinely truly terrified. He thought he’d felt terror before, but it pales in comparison to this.

“Alright,” Louis murmurs. “Let’s go.”

The massive capital building is glittering like a hologram in the sunshine. It looks entirely unreal, but Louis knows that somewhere in there is Harry, and that’s what drives him forward. He’s got to save them. He’s got to end this.

They stop at the steps leading up to the double front doors and glance at each other. There aren’t any guards out. This isn’t even a fucking civilian on the street. It’s eerily calm and feels like some sort of trap, but it’s more likely that the president is just confident no Rebel would even come to the capital, which is an entirely reasonable assumption considering the fact that anyone with common sense would think they’d got shot in the head for being within five miles of the building.

Before anyone can tell him not to, Louis darts up the steps and pounds on the door with a shaking fist. He watches, holding his breath, as the door swings open.

It feels like someone has punched him in the gut when his eyes follow the long, slender legs up to the muscular torso and to the prettily painted face. To the dead green eyes. To the downturned pink lips. To the dark curls pulled back in a bun. He always wondered what Harry might look like in a suit and tie, but he never thought it would be accompanied by such a cold demeanor and a large hand holding a gun.

“Harry,” he breathes.

Harry narrows his eyes and presses the cold barrel of his gun into Louis’s kidney. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

Louis thinks he might throw up on Harry’s dress shoes (which are so shiny he can see his sickly reflection in them). “I’m here to speak to the president.”

“Father doesn’t take visitors,” Harry replies, voice cold as ice.

“Tell him Louis Tomlinson and his friends are here to make a deal with him,” Louis tells him. “He’ll want to see us.”

Harry looks from Louis to the lads and back at Louis again. “I’m sure he will,” he says, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. “Come with me, Louis Tomlinson. Leave your weapons outside.”

After setting his pistol down on the porch, Louis motions for the lads to join and steps over the threshold. Harry keeps his gun pointed firmly at him throughout the walk, but Louis hardly notices. He can’t stop staring at him. There are dark circles under his eyes and he can see a new tattoo from where his sleeve is pushed up. It’s a mermaid, which is stupid, but it’s still raised and a little scabbed, clearly fresh. Louis feels sick to his stomach.

“Stop staring at me, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry spits.

Louis swallows. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “You just...you look different.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I do,” he whispers, unable to meet the dull green of his eyes. He misses their warmth and brilliance. “I love you, remember?”

Harry curls his free hand into a fist. “Don’t try to trick me, Louis Tomlinson. Father warned me about boys like you.”

“I’m not trying to trick you.”

“Father said Rebels will say anything they can to manipulate you,” Harry continues bitterly. “Don’t speak to me any further. I won’t listen.”

“Harry—“

“If you say another word, I’ll bring you to Father dead.”

Louis feels Zayn squeeze his hand lightly, reassuringly, and gives him a tightlipped smile. He imagined his reunion with Harry a lot of times. He should’ve known it wouldn’t be fucking sunshine and sweets and love. He should’ve known it would be like this.

Harry stops suddenly and pulls open a large oak door. He motions the four of them in with a wave of his gun and steps in behind them, clicking the door shut softly behind him. They’re in a round, warmly lit office with dark walls and red furniture, and of fucking course there’s President Styles, sitting behind a wide desk and smirking at them delightedly.

“Well, Harry, I wasn’t expecting you to meet my friends so soon,” President Styles says, thin lips twisting into a smile. “Good afternoon, boys.”

Louis tightens his jaw and breathes heavily through his nose. “Good afternoon.”

President Styles rises from his desk and smooths the creases out of his trousers. “Harry, would you excuse us?”

Harry nods curtly. “Of course, Father.”

“Thank—“

“Actually,” Louis interrupts, “I wanted to speak to Harry. Alone.”

President Styles blinks. “I’d actually like to speak to you alone first, Louis,” he responds. “I feel like we’ve got some catching up to do.” He glances over at Harry. “Keep the others entertained. I’m taking Louis down the hall.”

Harry nods. “Yes, Father.”

“Very good.” President Styles starts for the door, motioning with one of his thin hands for Louis to follow him. “Come along, Louis.”

Louis swallows and starts walking. He can feel Zayn, Liam, and Niall watching him, but he doesn’t look back. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest, because he just knows this is where their plan goes wrong. This is where President Styles kills him. He just knows it.

They enter a room next door and the only thing in the room is a wooden chair with leather straps on the legs and arms. He’s going to die here.

“Have a seat,” President Styles instructs. Louis stares at him for a heartbeat and President Styles meets his gaze evenly. “Please.”

“I’m fine standing.”

“You’re our guest, Louis. I only want you to be comfortable.” He gives him a tightlipped smile. “Sit.”

Legs trembling, Louis sits down on the chair and digs his nails into his palms as President Styles straps him in. The president gives them a firm tug to make sure they’re tight (and Louis has no chance in hell of escaping) before giving himself a satisfied nod and standing back.

“What do you want to talk to me about?” Louis asks tightly.

President Styles frowns. “You’re smart enough to know, Louis.”

“What did you do to him?”

“We just change his thoughts from time to time,” he replies briskly.

“Why the fuck would you do that to him?”

“Harry was always a better…toy than a son. We couldn’t train him to do anything properly. He was hopeless, always more interested in picking flowers and cuddling with his mother than doing his job,” President Styles says in a voice dripping with contempt. “Then I thought, why not turn him into what we need? It was brilliant, really. And relatively simple, though not cheap or painless. But it was worth it—oh it was beyond worth it, Louis. Harry does whatever we need him to, and when the task is over, _poof_ , he’s back to whatever Harry he was before. It’s not perfect, of course, but it’s just so easy when he can’t remember anything.”

“He’s a person,” Louis spits. “Your son. And you turned him into…into a monster.”

President Styles frowns. “He’s not a monster, Louis. I’m quite hurt that you think so. He’s a weapon. The best one we’ve got, actually.”

“He’s a person, and you took everything from him,” Louis growls, voice strained. He can feel angry, bitter tears pricking his eyes. “You took it all away.”

“It was for the best. He was made to kill. And he will kill you, and everyone you know.”

“He loves me!” Louis screams, the tears flowing freely now, hot and thick. “He loves me and he won’t do this!”

President Styles focuses his sharp black eyes on Louis. “He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t feel. He isn’t capable of loving, Louis. We made him do that, don’t you see? We made him do that for our benefit. He is a machine, wired to do exactly as I say.” He pauses before continuing breezily, as if discussing what he’ll be having for dinner this evening. “And when he comes in here, he’ll kill you. Then he’ll go shoot each of your pathetic friends. And he won’t feel a thing.”

Louis swallows back the bile rising up in his throat. “You’re wrong. He won’t forget me forever. Whatever you did to him, it…it didn’t work. I just have to get alone with him. He’ll remember me. He loves me.”

President Styles strides over, the heels of his expensive black shoes clicking on the marble floor. He curls a dry, long-fingered hand under Louis’s chin and jerks his head up, forcing Louis to look him in the eye. He’s poking his bottom lip out in a pout and his dark, dark eyes are completely devoid of any emotion, completely devoid of anything human. Louis glares at him with loathing, longs to slit his throat and watch the life ooze out of him.

“I feel sorry for you, Louis.”

He takes one of his claws and runs it under Louis’s eyes, catching some of his salty tears. He holds his finger out in front of him, observing it with an apathetic fascination, before shaking his head.

“Pathetic,” he murmurs.

Blinded with rage and hate, Louis spits on the president’s face. “Fuck you.”

Eyes narrowed to sharp slits, President Styles withdraws a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and wipes the saliva from his cheek. “I look forward to watching you die, Louis. I’ll make sure it’s as slow and painful as possible.” A cold smile twists his face. “It would be a shame to lose such good company so quickly.”

~~~ 

The door to the little room opens and Louis’s head shoots up. Harry is standing there, knife in hand and jacket slung over his shoulder. He raises an eyebrow at Louis before shutting the door and walking over to him, dropping his jacket on the marble as he goes.

“Now,” Harry begins, pressing the cold metal of the knife against Louis’s cheek, “as you know, I’m here to kill you.”

Louis closes his eyes as Harry drags the dull side of the knife against the sharp line of his cheekbone. “You don’t have to do this.”

The knife stills. “Yes, I do. Father’s orders.”

Louis swallows and opens his eyes, looking directly into Harry’s. “Do you do everything your father tells you to?”

Harry smirks. “Father is the president and I’m a law abiding citizen. You’re a fucking criminal, and that’s why you’re going to die.”

“Don’t you remember that you love me?” Louis asks quietly, searching his face for some trace of his Harry. Some trace of humanity. “How can you forget something like that?”

Harry growls in frustration swings his arm angrily, knife slicing across Louis’s cheek and over the bridge of his nose. He cries out in agony as Harry spits, “Don’t fucking talk to me like that. I don’t love you. I would never love someone like _you_.”

Warm blood oozes out of his wound and runs down his neck. “Yes you would. You do.”

Eyes burning in rage, Harry presses the bloody blade against Louis’s lips. “Shut the fuck up.” Louis swallows and stares at him in silence. Harry narrows his eyes, pulls the knife away, and whispers, “That’s better. There’s no point in talking my ear off with this bullshit when you’re just going to die anyway.”

“Harry—“

“There’s nothing you can do to stop it, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry interrupts. “Don’t waste your breath.”

Suddenly President Styles’s words ring in his ears. _Harry does whatever we need him to, and when the task is over, poof, he’s back to whatever Harry he was before._ Louis can fix this. He can fix Harry. He can save him.

“Do you want to impress your father?” Louis asks quickly. Harry glares at him and doesn’t respond. “Because I know how you can.”

Harry wipes the bloody knife off on Louis’s jumper. “I’m sure you do.”

“I should kill myself,” Louis continues, mind running at a million miles per minute. “Can you imagine how thrilled he’d be with you if you told you forced me to kill myself? If you forced his least favorite Rebel to suicide?”

Harry stands up, drawing himself up to his full height and staring down at Louis. “Why would you want to do that?”

“I’d rather die by my own hand than yours.”

What seems like years passes by with Harry just watching him curiously, suspiciously, before placing the knife on Louis’s lap and undoing the strap on his right wrist. “If you try anything, I’ll just shoot you,” he says carefully.

Louis nods undoes the strap on his left wrist, and grips the knife carefully in his hand. He’s never wanted to do anything less in his life, but he has to. He’s got to do this to save Harry, and everybody else. They’re depending on him. If they can’t get Harry to turn on the president, their plan will never work. The war will never be over and it’ll all have been for nothing. He can’t let that happen.

So he drags the sharp blade horizontally down his arm, biting down on his lip so hard he’s sure his teeth are going to bust through. As the flows thickly out of the long, jagged cut, he keeps his eyes trained on Harry until he gets hazy. Then his eyes flutter shut. The blood soaks the sleeve of his jumper, drips down the arm of the chair. And all he can think is, _God, I hope this works._

~~~ 

Thoroughly confused and feeling stuck in a hazy cloud of drugs, Louis blinks open his eyes and stares down at the crispy white bandage wrapped around the entire length of his left forearm. He sits up and runs his fingers over the cotton, overwhelmed as the memories come rushing back.

Harry running down the hall of the capital building, holding a bleeding and fading Louis in his arms, shouting for his father to come out of wherever he’s hiding so he can kill him. Liam taking Louis from him and following Zayn through the building, dodging and shooting Conformists and shouting orders. The sound of a massive explosion as Niall tosses a Molotov cocktail off of the roof and onto the gasoline filled cars in the garage. Rebels rushing by. Liam dumping Louis on a plank of wood. Liam and Zayn rushing him out of the building with Eliza running along beside them.

Panic makes his throat tighten as he realizes he doesn’t know what happened to Harry. He rips the IV out of his arm and slides out of the hospital bed. His legs are wobbly and his head is swimming, but that doesn’t stop him from stumbling out of the room and into the hall.

Doors are open all down the hall and he can see and hear other Rebels in the rooms, some groaning in agony and some laughing with friends. He teeters off to the right, determined to find his boy, and pauses when he hears someone in the room to his left shout his name. When he glances in he sees Niall propped up in one of the beds, eating a bowl of cereal and grinning cheerfully.

“Louis! What are you doing up?” Niall asks as Louis pads into the room.

“Where’s Harry?”

Niall frowns. “Last time I saw him he was in your room.” Relief washes over Louis like a wave and before he realizes what he’s doing he collapses onto Niall’s bed and wraps the Irish ball of sunshine in his arms. “Mate, calm down. Everything’s okay.”

Louis pulls back and runs his hands through his hair. “I thought we lost him forever when they took him,” he breathes.

Niall smiles at him. “You’d have to try a little harder to get that giraffe bastard away from you.” He pauses and touches his finger to the deep wound on Louis’s cheek. “He got you pretty good, didn’t he?”

Louis reaches up and runs his fingers over the cut. “I guess he did, yeah.”

“It’ll be a badass scar.”

“Yeah, I—“

“Niall, have you seen Louis any—Louis!”

Louis looks over his shoulder just in time to see Harry barreling into the room. Harry envelopes Louis in his arms and inhales deeply. Louis can feel his boy’s heart hammering in his chest as he jumps up and wraps his legs around him.

“You scared me,” Harry whispers. “I went to wee and came back and you were gone.”

“I went to look for you.”

Harry kisses the spot behind Louis’s ear. “I killed him.”

“Your father?” Louis murmurs.

Harry nods. “Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“I never thought I’d kill my father,” Harry replies quietly. “And I didn’t want to but—“

“You had to,” Louis finishes.

“Yeah.”

Louis pulls back and rests his forehead against Harry’s, staring into his glassy green eyes, and gives him a watery smile. “Everything is going to be alright.”

“I know.”

“It’s going to take a long time, but we’ll rebuild,” Louis tells him, gently running his fingers through his curls. “Now that you remember me again, I can use you to build be a nice house.”

Harry laughs and shakes his head. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you more.”

“Oh, I’ve missed you the most, love muffin!” Niall coos.

Louis turns and fixes Niall with a glare. “Shut up.”

Niall cackles and shovels a spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

“That’s what we were doing until you interrupted,” Louis sniffs.

“Hey,” Harry pouts, “talk to me, not him.”

Louis returns his attention to Harry and presses a kiss lightly to his nose. “Remember how you told me I was your home?”

“Of course,” Harry breathes. “I’d never forget.”

He remembers reading years ago a quote about how you shouldn’t make people your home, but Louis has never been one to follow the rules (he is a Rebel, after all). “You’re my home too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god.....i cant believe its finally done. im sorry it took so long but ill make it up to you guys somehow i swear!!! i love you all so much thank you so much for reading!!!!


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